There is no easy way to start a Naturespeak series about my brief trip to Florida because there is too much to talk about. Putting a northern naturalist into a southern – near tropical -clime in mid-winter can create a state of over-stimulation. I suppose you could call it an overdose. In other words, I don’t know where to begin. I could start rattling off about manatees and pelicans or anoles or ibis flocks (does one say ibisii for plural on this one?). Or, how about the fiddler crabs, mangroves, alligators and cabbage palms – not to mention the Knickkernuts? See, you get my point.

So, I will begin at an arbitrary point with no rhyme or reason as to what is most or least impressive. Let’s start with a few fish just because we can and because they have some wonderful names. Florida is a place of fantastic place names such as Weeki Watchi and Chassahowitzka, which are rivers in the region north of Tampa. Being on the Gulf of Mexico, however, fish and fish names are also part of the mix. Let’s take the wonderfully named Crevalle Jacks.

The freshwater spring at Homosassa is best known for its herd of manatees. As exciting as it was to watch these huge potatoes sleep on the bottom, however, the swirling schools of fish demanded the most eye time. As viewed from the glass-enclosed observation pod their motions are mesmerizing. Watching the tornado tube column of swimming Jacks was enough to induce a hypnotic state. Because they are fast swimming marine fish they have a hard time staying still and so they do laps, as it were, around this huge natural hot tub all day long. The waters issue out of the earth at around 72 degrees F.

There are dozens of species of Jacks and the Crevalle represents a typical member of the family Carangidae.  Like all members of the tribe they have compressed silvery bodies (laterally compressed in fisheese), a series of boney scutes on the body just ahead of the tail, and deeply forked tails (lunate or crescent moon shaped). Their face is blunted and expressionless. The side fins, or pectorals if you prefer, are extremely long and taper down to a fine whisp and the matching top and bottom fins each lead a saw-toothed row of finlets down to the base of the tail fin. A sleek racing fish if ever there was one.

The name Crevalle Jack apparently stems from a root word cavalla– the feminine form – of horse. I will not go into details because I don’t know or care. It can be said that the scientific name Caranx hippos has a very clear reference to a horse (hippos is Greek for horse). There is nothing horse-like about these fish, however. They do not graze and, in fact, are veracious predators. The origin of Jack is more nebulous. When I came upon the phrase that cavalla is another meaning of jack I prematurely decided to end this thread with the admission that “I don’t know Jack.”

I do know that Craville Jack would be a great name for a brand of rum or a horse-faced rum swiggler in some future pirate movie.

Another oddly named fish of Homosassa Spring are the Snooks. These large wall-eyelike fish hang out close to the observation glass where they display a neat racing stripe down the side. Elsewhere, large Florida Gars (lacking an unusual or even creative name) perform terrific manatee imitations by lying perfectly still on the bottom close to shore.

Snooks

Florida Gar

It was on a saunter down the fishing pier at Fort DeSoto, located in the mouth of Tampa Bay well south of Homosassa, that I (we, actually – my daughter and myself) encountered another fascinating ocean fish with yet another intriguing name. Several seasoned fishermen were plying their sport over the rail. One of them had a fish tucked into his bucket and I stopped to ask if I could take a look. His prize was a Spanish Mackeral. He simply referred to it as a Mackeral and dinner. I was unable to find out why it is considered especially Spanish but certainly understand why it is neither Dutch nor Norwegian.

Like the Carville Jacks, the Spanish mackerel is another one of those sleek oceanic speedsters. The identifying feature on this species is the galaxy of yellow spots on its flanks. The fisherman quickly offered to lay down his ruler to serve as a comparison and even thought I might want to hold it up as if I had captured the thing. Assuring him that my interest was strictly as a naturalist, I re-focused my camera on that neat little keel on the tail stem which is found on oceanic speedsters.

He pondered the feature as if he’d never seen it before and asked what it was called. Unfortunately I had no good answer other than “a neat keel-like thing.” Doubtless he was un-impressed with the Northern Naturalist. I later looked it up and found it to be called a “caudal keel”. This feature, also found on tuna and sharks, provides stability and support and is not found on any freshwater fish that I know of (note the qualifier in that statement).

Finally, I would like to mention the humble Scrawled Cowfish. Cow fish are well protected by a complete boney shell made up of fused hexagonal bone plates. Once seen, there is no doubt as to why a cow fish is called such (the scrawled part comes from the short lines decorating the body). They are equipped with two little forward facing horns over their eyes. Two additional horns face backwards next to their anal fin which would suggest an alternate name of horn butt just in case the old name runs out.

The beach near Bayonet Point was littered with their sun-dried carcasses where tourists and shorebirds were picking at their remains. Ruddy Turnstones sought access through chinks in the cow fish armor for bits of fish jerky clinging to the inside of the shell. Most of the fish were picked clean. One of them returned home with me and is banished to the back porch until it no longer smells of ocean (and other things).

I am not done with my Floridian rambles yet and will return to the subject next week. Meanwhile I’ll soak in this Michigan winter and return to my native roots. It is funny that in this discussion about Florida and unique names, I can only recall one other four-lettered name for snow and it too starts with the letter “s.”

There is little reason to celebrate Cowbirds, but the sight of thousands of ‘em does invoke some small sense of awe. Most cowbirds migrate south for the winter and you wouldn’t and shouldn’t expect to see any until winter has released its grip. On a recent trip down the road to Calder Dairy for some farm fresh cream and whiffs of bovine dung, I was amazed to see a huge flock of these blackbirds hanging about the place.

The pines adjacent to the parking lot were adorned with their shimmering black and brown bodies and the cow barn was equally packed with feathered life. It was bitter cold and very wintery. There was nary a touch of spring in the air yet the cowbirds were present and very much accounted for. The scene was rendered slightly magical by gentle falling snow and the bubbling sounds generated by a thousand little throats.

Being early February, it was possible that this was a very early migrant flock. I do know that the birds weren’t there back in January. An even mixture of Starlings peppered the flock, however, so it had the make-up of a generic off-season blackbird flock. Birds of a black feather do flock together during the cold months.

Technically these birds are called Brown-headed Cowbirds and even a cursory glance at a male bird proves this to be an appropriate name. Personally, and I have stated this before, I believe the brown heads result from all black birds following closely behind load-dumping cattle. Of course, this is not true but it provides a great memory trick for name recognition. Why anyone would need a memory trick to remember the name of Brown-headed Cowbirds is beyond me but then again so much of the world is beyond me. The original cows followed by these birds were Great Plains Bison and they gradually switched to domestic cattle when they replaced the wild bovines. The domestic hind ends also allowed the cowbirds to travel east and establish themselves on the Great Plains of Monroe County, Mich.

Female cowbirds are all brown – which means that they are either completely covered with cow dung or simply un-encumbered by the need for black feathers. No matter what, the females are possibly the most generic looking bird on the planet. A good way to identify a female Cowbird is the complete lack of any distinguishing features. Remember that cowbirds are nest parasites that need to sneak into and out of other bird nests in order to lay their eggs. You do not find nest parasites adorned with magnificent crimson crests or plumed tails.

There is always plenty of feed lying around a farm. Apart from feeding the livestock this also provides a horn of plenty for the wintering poop birds. The Calder Farm would be as close to paradise as an earthbound bird could expect would it not be for the presence of a wandering source of anarchy in the form of a black cat. I’m sure there are plenty of loose felines around the farm, but one of them caught my eye.

Normally I would rather throw my camera into a fresh pile of cow poo than use it to take a picture of a cat. I was temporarily fascinated by this feline. It sauntered by as if on a Sunday walk, even pausing to “clean itself” in that glorious cat manner. There were several drops of rich red blood frozen on its whiskers indicating the source of it latest meal. To say it looked guilty would be an understatement. The winter feedlot birds, including the plentitude of cowbirds, are a constant source of personal satisfaction.

Saw Bills and Hoodies

The mergansers are the most unusual looking ducks swimming the River Raisin this season.  Although technically “ducks”, they are not defined by the typically flat bills of that group. Mergansers are fish eating birds and their beaks are elongated into perfect piscine grabbers. This adaptation goes so far as to provide them with teeth. Yes, I know, birds don’t – and can’t – have true teeth (or lips for that matter) but can have tooth-like projections along the edge of the beak. They are succinctly called “saw bills” by hunters.  Mergansers exhibit this trait to such perfection that their beaks look exactly like those of the spotted gar – a very toothy fish-eating fish. They are fish ducks with fish faces!

Two species of mergansers are operating in the open waters of the Raisin as well as an equivalent section on the Huron River in Flat Rock: Common and Hooded Mergansers. The smallest ones, the Hoodies, are among the flashiest of the tribe and of all waterfowl. Only the Woodies (Wood Ducks) out-do the Hoodies in this department. This is, of course, up for argument …but not here.

Both male and female birds are present and both are worthy of admiration. Female birds, typical of their sex, are subtly shaded and their heads are wonderfully topped with glorious tufts of “hair.” It is a mark of my age to compare them with Phyllis Diller but I realize this has no meaning to the Jimmy Fallon generation. Since I’ve promised myself to limit my allusions to such anachronistic things such as typewriters, dial phones, and eight track tapes I will let a frazzled paint brush serve as my un-dated metaphor.  Oddly enough, paintbrushes have been around for thousands of years and are extremely anachronistic yet are still used daily.

Male Hooded Mergansers are magnificent beings. Resplendent in pin-striped maroon, black and white body décor the guys have pliable crests. Adjustable according to mood or behavior, the crest – or hood – can be laid back in the manner of wind-swept wheat or fully expressed as a full white fan. When diving, the crest is lowered to create an aerodynamic shape for underwater work (they pursue small fish like feathered seals).

Above the water surface, the crest is fanned out. When alerted to danger, or used as a courtship tool, it is opened to its full extent. One might get the impression that these guys have really large heads whenever the crest is fully hooded, but is mostly composed of air. Indeed, it might be tempting for female readers to state that this is a natural male condition but by this statement I mean to say that the bird’s head is actually very small and that the feathers are very long.  They are pin-head fowl. When side-lit in the morning sun, this trait is clearly displayed.

Larger Common Mergansers are mixed in with the Hoodies. Commonly called Gooseanders , these birds are nearly twice the size of their Hooded cousins.  I’ve only seen the females this winter. These birds are mostly gray backed with crested rusty heads. When resting (or possibly meditating) they depress their crest tightly in line with their head and neck profile. When actively hunting, however, this crest is opened in wild glory.

The fishing behavior of these mergansers is delightful to watch. They swim against the current and regularly dip their faces beneath the surface for a peek. While so engaged they appear like snorkelers cruising for seashells. Upon spotting their potential victim they plunge into the drink and chase their finny prey (see below & here).

Although we are fixating upon their sleek above-water appearance, the mergansers are rendered ungainly by their long legs and huge webbed feet. Their legs are located far past the mid-line of their bodies – an arrangement perfect for darting underwater. Unfortunately they are unable to walk very far on land or ice due to this hobbling arrangement.

Given the above foot and life facts, it would be easy to suspect that mergansers are 100% tied to the liquid element but that would be wrong. These birds are tree nesters, believe it or not.  They nest in tree cavities. In another few months they will be heading to the northern forests to raise a new generation of sawbills in the trees.

About the only open water available these days is to be found in the flowing waters of the River Raisin where it slips past the rocky matrix in midtown and below the step dams located further upstream. This liquid resource acts as a magnet for waterfowl and a wide variety of frigid fowl are attracted to the river at these points. Although a huge number of Canada Geese and Mallards dominate this crowd, a surprising number of divers are in evidence. Diverse divers in da river are delightful (wow, wasn’t that incredibly clever).

Because these diverse divers are so de…fascinating, I’d like to spend a few blog posts on them. So, consider this a warning that unless some dazzling natural phenomenon interferes – such as a wandering Polar Bear in downtown Temperance – you will be seeing lots of duck pictures. Let this also serve as a warning that these are incredible looking creatures and, unlike a rather bland looking Polar Bear in a Snowstorm, their bold patterns and antics make for some de…fascinating images.

Red heads and Blue bills

Quite a few Redheads can be seen bucking the current and diving. They are well-named only if you consider the males and ignore the females (which is the case of virtually all birds with the exception of the Belted Kingfisher). The guys have bright round reddish heads atop a black breast and dark gray back while the gals are adorned in subtle shades of brown. The bright yellow eyes of the males give them a look of perpetual surprise – which is, come to think of it, the basic male look in all species.

The winter flock consists of an equal number of males and females, but they are not yet paired for the upcoming season. Like all winter ducks, staying warm is not an issue due to their thick layer of water-repellant down. For now, their only concern is to find food. They plunge head first into the current and seek aquatic plants and invertebrates off the bottom. In the case of the mid-town river the overall depth is only a foot or so and this trip is not a long one. The birds generally bob to the surface a few yards ahead of their original dive location and allow the current to deliver them back to the starting point for another dive.

Although the Red-heads have blue bills, their river partners the Bluebills have cornered the naming market in this area.  Technically they are called Scaups and even more technically they are classified as either Greater or Lesser Scaups.  Duck hunters, who are responsible for the Bluebill name, usually don’t differentiate between the two species but will use bill terminology to divide them. Greaters have “broad-bills” (and are so called) and Lessers have narrower bills (called just plain bluebills).

I’ve only seen a few male birds in the river and frankly I can’t easily tell which “bill” they represent. From a distance they are chunky black and white fowl with dark heads and butts, vermiculated backs (barred), and bright blue bills. Like the Red-heads, they also dive with gusto but specialize on snails and small clams – thus the actual meaning of scaup meaning mussel-eater. So, you see it is not a bad name, but doesn’t offer the flair of the nickname.

In general, the Greater Blue, or Broad-bills, have a rounded head with a greenish cast to it. The Lesser Blue-bills have an oval shaped head with a little crest or bump to mark the high point. Their head coloration tends toward the purplish side. Now, the lessers are a bit smaller than the greaters , but this is only apparent when the two are in a mixed group.

I will not get into this any deeper other than to say that a single bird I spotted at the Huron River in Flat Rock (see above and here) was definitely a Lesser Scaup based on the previously mentioned traits. Two bobbing sleepers in the Raisin at the foot of the step dam in Dundee, however, looked to be Greaters – even though they didn’t exactly look so great (see below) nor am I going to stake my reputation on it.

The Dundee Dam ducks were fun to watch because they were in resting mode. Head tucked over the back with the bill rammed deep into the contour feathers, they swam around the rapids with effortless impunity without changing their peaceful pose. One of them became alerted as it spotted me and took a prolonged gander (ducks can gander) in my direction but it soon figured out that I wasn’t about to jump into the water and was not a threat.

Before resuming the resting position this little duck stretched, opened its mouth, and stuck out its pink tongue. It appeared to be laughing at the cold and enjoying its winter life on the roiling river.  “It’s a duck’s life for me and I’m as happy as can be.”

On the really really cold days, he snuggles deep within his silken snuggie bag. He peeps out from the folds, like a dog watching traffic through parted window curtains, whenever the thermometer rises into the teens. On days soaring into the 20’s and 30’s he will come out completely and walk about the immediate framework of his shelter. So goes the winter life of my resident jumping spider living in my back porch (the very same un-heated, un-finished back porch featured in my last post).

All teary eyed Charlotte’s Web readers know that many spiders package their next generation as silk-encased eggs and die before the onset of winter. Some spiders do overwinter as adults, however, and my porch mate is a prime example of this tactic. To say that this hairy little dude is hibernating would be a miscarriage of the word. Technically cold-blooded arthropods don’t hibernate – they enter diapause. Because my little charge is a male, I suppose you could call his a state of menopause but that term has already been taken (why is it, by the way, women go through MENapause -shouldn’t it be FEM or WOMANapause?). At any rate, diapause implies a “pausing” of activity but, based on my observations, this is anything but the truth. They are quite active throughout the season.

The spider in question is a Phidippus audax, otherwise known as the Bold Jumping Spider. In case you are wondering, the Latin species name audax literally means “audacious”, or bold if you will. Apart from actually being bold, these spiders are identifiable by their iridescent green chelicera (jaws), hairy black bodies, and orange-spotted backs. The males, averaging 10mm in length, are smaller than the females and possess two tiny horns, or tufts, above their main eyes. Thus the reason I am calling my spider a guy. If he comes out on Super Bowl Sunday then I’ll be positive of this.

The chosen wintering spot for this bold little beast is a woven two-layered silk bag built within an open square of a metal cooking grid. This item functions a spacer for a small aluminum camp kettle during the summer, but the grid dimensions make it a perfect site for Phidippus in the fall and winter. Bold Jumping spiders use their audacious silk producing skills to construct chamber nests for various purposes. Females weave protective bags for eggs; growing individuals construct them for skin-shedding periods, and wintering adults construct them as Arctic sleeping bags. Several rows down and over from the wintering spot, a shed skin indicates that another – perhaps the same guy – used this square as a shedding chamber earlier in the fall (see below).

As I stated earlier, the only time I found this spider completely “paused” was during those hard freeze weeks when the temperatures crashed into the single digits and below. At any other time he was up and out and very alert. It became a challenge to photograph this fellow because he would spot me and retreat whenever I entered the room. I had to sneak upon him as carefully as if it were stalking a wild turkey. I frequently had to resort to my telephoto options!

Jumping spiders have excellent vision. Like most spiders they have four pairs of eyes. The central pair is huge and gives the critters a Jeep-like appearance. Apparently these main eyes are used for primary vision and the extra eyes (including a set on the back of the “head”) for light/dark indications. Thanks to painstaking research it has been determined that Jumpers see most of the world as a fuzzy out-of-focus green place. They do not have binocular vision. Instead, according to Takashi Nagata, of the Osaka City University, they have a four layered retina. The first layer creates a sharp image and the deeper layers register different intensities of UV and green light. The close items become blurry and thus allow for a comparative view for distance judging within each single eye.

Based on this analysis I often appeared as a scary blurry green object in the face of my saltatorial friend. After seeing what this would actually look like in his eyes (see here), I have resolved not to attempt to sneak up on my winter spider for the remainder of the season lest I drive him into a deep diapause from which he may never escape.

In short, a bat in a can can a.) revive itself from deep hibernation and b.) relocate to a better location on its own.  I received just such a canned bat last week and can now attest to the veracity of these two statements. A good friend called me last week after his attic water pipes froze and burst. The water flowed down through several levels in one of his rental units and melted a portion of the ceiling of the upstairs apartment. He didn’t call to ask me to fix it. I am a duct tape type of guy and he is a professional handyman.

Apparently the damage upset one the residents and he thought I might be interested. He was right. The resident in question was a bat (the apartment was un-occupied by humans at the time). It apparently came down into the room seeking a way to get the heck out of that unfriendly joint. Not knowing what to do with it, but not wanting to kill it, my friend coaxed the little beast into an old coffee can and put a loose plastic bag over the top to secure it. It was now in his unheated breezeway at home, he said, and was mine if I wanted it.  Of course, I did.

I didn’t actually connect with my friend, and his bat, until three days later (it’s a long story about a missed phone message etc. etc.) The canned creature was still alive when I stopped by to pick it up. A peek inside revealed a Big Brown Bat. It was torpid (sluggish from hibernation) and barely took notice of our probing fingers. We laughed over the real need to cover the top of the can – after all it wasn’t likely to go flying off in 10 degree weather…right?  So, I brought the frozen orphan home to my un-heated back porch and pondered its future.

My plan was to wait until the temperatures rose up into the 30’s and let him go. It is not unusual for Big Brown Bats to fly about in mid-winter seeking new shelters (especially when their old ones suffer from busting pipeitis). Unfortunately the prospect for the coming week was for a continuation of the arctic blast with no January thaw in sight.  That first night was to dip into the single digits and I worried about my little charge. For a second I thought about popping him into the frig but could not muster the ability to tell my wife, although I’m SURE she’d understand but… As it turned out the issue resolved itself without my sleeping out on the couch.

The bat was gone by the next morning. As the temperatures plummeted, he scrambled up the side of the can, pushed aside the bag cover and flittered away. Although I believe he secreted himself in one of the many niches and gaps between the house and the porch, he may have found exit to the outside world through numerous egress points (it is a very unfinished, as well as unheated, porch).  In other words, Big Browns are not helpless refrigerator magnets when in hibernation mode.

Cave dwelling bats need the stable 50-some degree environs found in caverns while B.B.B’s have adapted to shifting winter temps. Cave bats tend to cluster while Big Browns usually go it alone. They are very tolerant of cold and are one of the few bats that can afford to hibernate in drafty northern attics.

When entering hibernation mode they dramatically lower both body temperature and metabolism to reduce their energy requirements but oddly enough rarely stay in such a state for more than 3 or 4 days at a time. They wake themselves frequently in response to changing temperature and as a matter of habit. At least one study showed that these wide-awake periods last 5 hours on the average – which allows enough time to shift about or re-locate if necessary. One study even proved, and I am grossly summarizing here, that if a bat stays in a torpid state for too long it will get “stupid.” They need to wake up and restore their “synaptic synapses.”  I’m not sure there is a human parallel to draw here, so I won’t attempt it.

In retrospect it is amazing that my bat survived its multi-day sub-freezing can experience at all. The ideal hibernation temperature for such a creature ranges between 37 degrees – 68 degrees F. The air temperature has to be above freezing for this hibernation thing to work. When ambient temperatures dip below 32 degrees F the bat can raise its body temperature, wake up, and move or it can increase metabolism, stay in hibernation, and make up the difference. Either choice burns up fat stores but trumps the alternative which is freezing to death.

It’s a good thing that I took a few photos right away when I initially brought the Big Brown Bat inside. I was planning to try for a few better shots on the following morning. The bat, however, obviously had better plans. Once again I am humbled by what nature knows and I don’t.

For a Red Squirrel there is no event of greater importance than that of protecting one’s stash.  Before I elaborate on that topic, please allow me a few lines to defend myself.

Yes, I am aware that I have either directly or indirectly referred to squirrels in many of my recent posts. Yes, I am aware that this might suggest to some that I am spending way too much time on the subject and that I must be lapsing into prolonged obsessive bouts of rocking and shouting out the names of nut bearing trees.  You needn’t worry. It is the naturalist’s prerogative to dwell upon a subject to near obsession – heck, Charles Darwin spent a lifetime investigating barnacles. You have to admit that squirrels are far more fascinating than barnacles. And, I must remind you, there are no barnacles in my yard. The plain truth of the matter is that the squirrels in my yard are so active that they simply beg attention.

Now, shall we continue? First, a summary. During the recent Polar Latex… er, Vortex…the Fox Squirrels enjoyed free reign of the yard. They boldly treated themselves to the Red Squirrel walnut cache under the shed.  After the Playtex…er,vortex …passed, the Red Squirrels emerged from hiding and were hopping mad at this breach of squirrel etiquette. The little red devils took immediate action to protect their stash.

Rather than launch a “Red Dawn” attack against their giant cousins, the Red Squirrels chose a much more subtle approach. They began to systematically relocate a portion of their stash to a new location. While one positioned itself as a lookout on the center Maple tree, the other acted as the nut courier. This top secret activity was conducted in the full light of day due to fact that the squirrel’s night vision goggles were destroyed by the intense cold of the Solar Gortex..er, I mean Polar…Never mind.

Over and over again the nut courier ran the route between the walnut cache and the new location which was somewhere over by the creek.  The tiny squirrel covered the distance, about a hundred feet or so, in record time – bee-lining from creek to maple, then maple to shed and back. A single walnut was carried each time.

Apart from the amusement of it all, I was also able to capture motion with multiple freeze frames. Red Squirrels bound when they are running and so frequently become air born with all fours off the ground (Eadweard Muybridge would be proud of my photo evidence of this). Those who are familiar with squirrel tracks know that the front foot impressions are behind the back foot impressions.  To those of you who didn’t know this, you now know this. At the end of a leap, the paired front feet make ground contact first and the critter’s momentum carries the hind feet forward where they strike the ground and launch the animal into another leap.

I can’t say how long my observed squirrel had been nut-couriering before I spotted it, but I can say that it performed at least ten more round trips before stopping. The lookout squirrel spotted me peering out the window and sounded the alarm. This ended the mission and the squirrels went “dark.” I went back into the house, began rocking back and forth, and started to continuously recite words that rhymed with Vortex.

First came the snow – lots of it. This was followed by blasts of fierce arctic wind and temperatures plunging into the negative double digit range. The weather folk called it a Polar Vortex and gave us a terrifying term to replace what would normally be called a “cold snap.” Partly as a victim of cabin fever and partly because of guilt for having it, I was strangely drawn to document some of this and prowled around the county seeking scenes of stark whiteness, crisp blueness, misty ice fogginess, and animal toughness. I was not disappointed on any front.

I here present some of my results in the form of an annotated photo essay. Let’s just call these “Cold Snaps” and chuckle softly to ourselves at the extreme cleverness of that title. O.K., at least allow me to chuckle softly at my delusional fever-driven cleverness incited by extreme conditions.

There is something visually beautiful about wild winter weather. The storm rolled in like a freight train and blanketed the county with a thick layer of snow. Just down the road, the winds blew so hard across the fields that even the roadside telephone poles had to submit to their ferocity. Never mind that the pole in the second shot had been leaning northward for years.

South of town, the waters of the quarry refused to freeze over when the arctic blast followed on the heels of the snow. Boiling like a frigid kettle of dry ice, the relatively warm waters generated an ice fog which coated everything with sparkling crystals. It was minus 8 degrees when I took this snap.

Although most of the river was frozen over, fast open stretches of the Raisin joined forces with the quarry waters and resisted the freeze. Ice fogs made for some stunning sunrise views when the shoreline Cottonwoods cast their shadows on the ghostly veil. Canada Geese dealt with the situation by bundling together, tucking their heads deep into their back feathers, and waiting out the stark cold nights.

A lone Bald Eagle surveyed the scene from the south side of the smoky river. She is one of several that make the rounds.  About the only thing that restricts the distribution of winter eagles is the presence of open water. As fishers and duck hunters they will congregate wherever their prey can be found and captured. Based on the dirty white head and eye stripe, she has seen 3 winters and is now engaged in her fourth (clothed in the so-called Basic III plumage of a 3 ½ year old).  Is she a she? Well, I really don’t know but am 50% sure. It’s a shame to call such a majestic bird an “it.”

The bright red butt of a House Finch added a dash of welcome color in the Arctic landscape. Puffed up against the elements, this bird was waiting its turn at a birdfeeder. They say that the intensity of the red on a male bird is a by-product of the pigments of the food they obtain just prior to their molt.  The dull colored females deliberately select the brightest males as their mates. From the looks of it, this House Finch will have to beat back the chicks with a stick (if, that it, he survives until Spring).

Across the road from the finches, a flock of Tree Sparrows gleaned seeds from the field plants lining the farm field. I believe the temperature at the time was around minus 2, but I doubt they noticed. Tree sparrows are Arctic visitors who nest in the Tundra regions of the high north. They over-winter in the balmy setting of the winter Midwest and make their living in the weedy fields and around the domestic bird feeders of the suburbs. Although sparrows as a group can be hard to identify, the dark breast spot, rusty crown and eye stripe, and bi-colored bill are definitive Tree sparrow traits.

I end my photo safari where I began with the squirrels of my back yard. My previous blog dwelled upon this subject and ended with some thoughts on the Red Squirrel. In short, you’ll recall that the Fox Squirrels have been braving the weather and eating all of the Red Squirrel’s carefully stored nuts. The Reds didn’t emerge from hiding until yesterday and – as predicted – they were ticked. One of them, pictured in the second shot, ran wildly from limb to limb creating mini-blizzards as it knocked piles of snow off the branches. It was visibly upset and I shudder to think what it will do if it catches the offending Fox Squirrel (looking rater sheepish in the first shot).

The Polar Vortex may be over but the Squirrel Vortex is back.

As I sit to write this blog entry it is as a captive of the snowstorm of 2014 (perhaps THE snowstorm of 2014 if time judges it so).  My view of the world has been basically from the inside looking out and has been so for several weeks due to the bitter cold. From this perspective, the yard squirrels have been the primary subject of prolonged observations and thus the victim of my thinking. One can never be disappointed by squirrels – nor can the word “squirrel” be uttered in seriousness. “Quoth the Squirrel Nevermore” has a far different connotation than Raven quothing etc.

It is a basic fact of nature that squirrels are fuzzier during the winter. That should go without saying, but since it is my habit to say things that don’t need saying I will elaborate on that concept a bit. Even though the Red Squirrels adamantly claim my yard, Fox Squirrels will bravely trespass until they are driven off by their sparky little cousins.  Both creatures are currently at their fuzzy best.

This morning a single Fox Squirrel nibbled upon one of the Red Squirrel’s walnuts under the cover of the blizzard. Bundled under a thick coat of yellow brown fur and equipped with fur gloves, he looked far more uncomfortable than he actually was. I, of course, can say this because I was looking out from a snug warm house. But still, although it looks as if he were protecting his nuts against the biting cold, there was ample indication that he was well insulated with fur and fat. The fresh blown snowflakes remained un-melted upon his brow as he fondled his prize in the low teen temperatures.

The Red Squirrels have been scarce for the last few days. They tend to sit tight during rough weather and restrict their activity to mid-day appearances. No doubt they will stir, visit their cache of walnuts under the shed and curse all Fox Squirrels when they discover that one of their precious nuts is missing. But let’s stick to hair here.

Both animals go through annual molts. Other than overall hairiness, a winter Fox Squirrel looks basically the same as its summer self in terms of color and pattern. They molt their fur once a year, including their tail, in early spring. It takes about a month to complete the job.

Red Squirrels, on the other nut…er, hand, take on quite a different appearance when the hiver blanc descends. Reds molt twice a year. The Spring molt progresses backward from the head and ends at the rump (see here a perfect example of this from my June 12, 2009 blog). Summer reds have a sleek shot-haired red-brown coat and a black racing stripe dividing the white belly form the brown sides. Their ears are scantily furred.  I here provide a few summer images (below and here) to warm your winter soul.

The Fall molt, that which turns the animal into a winter beast, occurs in the opposite direction and includes the tail hairs. A winter Red Squirrel (see below) is grizzled with thick gray fur and basically lacks the black racing stripe. The reddish tail tone continues up the center of the back. Prominent ear tufts top off the winter décor. About the only thing that doesn’t change is that mischievous look which gives the impression that the creature is about to do – or has already done – something bad.

Against the cold gray backdrop of Lake St. Clair Metropark the pile of fish parts looked rather festive. The golden bellies and speckled heads of gutted perch, bluegill and sunfish stood out clearly on the grass where an ice fisherman plopped it next to the parkway.  Although the placement was questionable, the pile provided a tempting bounty for the local Red-tailed Hawks.  It also proved to be a battleground for two immature birds seeking sushi.

By the time I came upon the scene, a single bird was picking away at the pile. A second hawk then floated down from a nearby Cottonwood and approached the first. Both contestants flared up and temporarily locked talons. With open mouths, flank feathers puffed, and wings held open, the two birds disengaged and resorted to a silent dance. Each attempted to intimidate the other.

Both birds were young-of-the-year Red Tailed hawks. Their tails were still brown and heavily barred and their eyes yellow – traits that morph into a reddish orange tail and brown eyes by the second year. They were equally sized as well. The only real difference was that one, the original owner of the pile, was darker than his competitor (see below).

The stand-off only lasted a few minutes before the outsider flew back to his perch on the Cottonwood. Surprisingly, the darker bird also abandoned the fish pile soon after.  Even though he was already full, as indicated by his bulging crop (the lump under his throat), he felt compelled to defend his riches and claim victory before abandoning it. I guess it was a matter of pride. The lighter bird eventually claimed the prize and was so engaged in gorging itself that it allowed me to approach within a few feet. He would not flush even as cars rushed by.

Whenever two or more Red-tails gather there is bound to be conflict. Even mated pairs will tussle from time to time. Fortunately nature has arranged it so that the larger females seek a slightly different prey base than the smaller males (as in the wife going to Kohl’s and the husband to Dunham’s Sports). This takes the edge off the potential competition between the two. Immature birds, being what they are – as in immature – will often duke it out with their fellow raptors. Their plight, however, is much more serious than just a hormonal tiff.

In the stark world of raptors most of the young birds die young. A majority, in fact, never live to celebrate their first birthday. This mortality is played out to the tune of 80%. The raptor reaper wears out dozens of scythes per year in the performance of his grim duty. He gives no quarter for young birds striving to navigate the painfully steep learning curve of independent life.  Winter is his finest hour. They don’t call it the dead of winter for nothing.

It will take every fish pile, road kill, and scrap of food to get a newly minted Red-tail through the winter. Young birds often rely on roadside carrion and become victims of road traffic themselves– becoming the dead feeding upon the dead. They must also learn to navigate through their new territory and discover the best hunting grounds and roosting locations.

The desperation of these fighting hawks is highlighted because they are fighting over a pile of dead fish. Typically over 80% of a Red-tail’s diet will consist of rodents, both the killed and pre-killed variety. Fish are so far down on that list as to be hardly worthy of mention. It is akin to two children fighting over a plate of okra and liver. But beggars are not choosers, as they say. About the only way a Red-tail can expect fresh fish is to hang around human fisherfolk. In retrospect this is not a bad idea.

To end on a high note, it is also a stark fact of raptor life that birds making it over that first horrendous hurdle of mortality can actually live long productive lives. It is not unusual for Red-tailed Hawks to reach twenty or more years of age in the wild and even longer in captivity.  By all odds, one of these birds will meet up with the reaper before the end of winter…but the ice fisherman of Lake St. Clair might have a role in beating those odds.