Ruddy Ducks are a prominent winter feature of life on the lower Detroit River. Sizable flocks of these compact little waterfowl raft about the icy waters along with coots, canvasbacks and merganser species.  Most of the North American population winters along the Gulf of Mexico, but a few hardy souls stick out the “r” months here at the glorious mouth of the Straits.

I recently came upon one of these tightly bundled Ruddy flocks in the protected bay formed by Sturgeon Bar Island at Lake Erie Metropark. There was a bright eastern breeze and the birds were resting.  Normally they would be actively diving for wild celery tubers and invertebrates –disappearing and bobbing to the surface like so many fishing bobbers with fish attached! But they were huddled against the cold on this day. Being round little things to begin with, when in the resting pose they look even “rounderer” because they throw their heads over the center of their backs and tuck their beaks under the scapular feathers. Eyes closed, and gently rolling with the waves, they look like fishing bobbers without the fish attached (to stretch an already over-stretched analogy). One writer likened them to Rubber Duckies (dark rubber duckies) and I agree.

Apart from being chunky, the position of their tail is a dead….er, a live… giveaway to their identity (given the future course of this essay perhaps I shouldn’t say the word “dead”). Members of a world group known as the “stiff-tailed ducks,” Ruddys indeed have stiff woodpecker-like tails which they tend to hold upright.  There was a good mix of males and females in this flock. All were in somber winter plumage, but the bright white cheek patches in the group highlighted the male birds. They will take on a bright orange ruddy color (thus the name) and a spectacularly sky blue bill as Spring draws nearer (nearerer?). The mottled females had secondary stripes running across their cheek patches. They will never look any better than they already do (because they already look great – right guys?).

My presence didn’t agitate them too much, but the whole flock moved to the far side of the bay upon spotting me. I had that happen at a party once, but I’m sure it was due to the kid behind me. Some (of the birds) merely adjusted their bobbing course with a few discreet foot maneuvers without even lifting their heads. Others launched into a short running flight along the surface. Ruddys cannot burst from the water like mallards, and other puddle ducks, and have to literally run across the water before take-off. In this case they only ran for about 20 feet in order to put distance between them and the human.

                                                  Look out! It’s those Nazi bird watchers again!!

This whole encounter got me to thinking how this relatively mild interaction would have played out in another part of the world. In Europe, you see, Ruddys are the enemy. Apparently some specimens escaped a captive English collection many years ago and established a wild breeding population in the early 1950’s. The ruddy hellions have spread to the continent and there is now a concerted effort to stop the wild population from spreading. There have been organized culls meant to kill as many as possible. You may wonder how much of a problem these goofy looking little ducks could possibly be. Why would anyone want to stop a Rubber Duckie?

The answer to the above question hinges on the fact that Ruddy Ducks are not native to Europe. They appear to be replacing the native member of the stiff-tailed clan called the White-faced Duck. According to biologists, the White-faces are already an imperiled species due to marsh draining and development. They exist only in isolated pockets from southern Spain, to the Middle East and Russia. Because the Ruddys can mate with and produce viable offspring with White-faced Ducks (they are members of the same genus) they are threatening to dilute the gene pool and possible wipe out the native type. In other words they are out-competing the natives directly and indirectly.

We in North America are used to this alien species scenario as it relates to some invasive European plants and animals on or turf, but give little thought to the reverse scenario of the ugly American in Europe. It’s not the Ruddy Duck’s fault, but it is a great problem- and one without a clean answer better than culling. Unfortunately there are groups that are against all efforts to curb the invasive Ruddys. As usual, these groups display extreme emotion for their reasoning. One of them, called Animal Aide, even goes so far as to claim that this is “killing in the name of blood purity” and that it is intended to “weed out misfits and defectives” just like what “went on in the 1930’s.”  All this is for the benefit of “Bird-watching Bigots”, they say.

Wow, them in some incendiary words. Someone needs to sit in a nice warm tub with a rubber duckie and calm down.

At any rate, I thought it was interesting to glimpse a global view of what appeared to be a purely regional thing. The good news is that Ruddy Ducks here on this side of the pond are loved and appreciated. They belong here in the winter river.  Although they are hunted during the brief fall waterfowl season, Ruddys are not subject to any pressure for most of the year and they are thriving. We bird-watching bigots can enjoy them for what they are.

I’m certain that thousands of folks have ventured to Brookside Cemetery in Tecumseh, MI this winter. There’s a lot to see and do in this quaint little town, but the burial ground has been the happening place as of late. Although a precious few may have been seeking solace there among the dead, most were actually out-of-towners in search of the living. As soon as a flock of White-winged Crossbills showed up on the rambling grounds, a flock of two-legged White-winged Crossbill watchers soon followed.  I was part of that human flock.

These peculiar little finches are winter visitors from the high northern taiga forests. Their appearance in Lower Michigan created a mild stir among birders and photographers. Crossbills regularly extend their winter range down to this neck of the woods, but such “irruptions” (as they are called) are undependable and sporadic.  A few years back they were even seen in cemeteries throughout NW Ohio and beyond. Why cemeteries? One might wonder if there is some creepy fascination with ancestor worship involved! The answer, however, lays not with what is below the ground at such places but what is growing above it – lots of evergreen trees.  Crossbills are evergreen seed specialists and the mature stands of spruce and hemlock found at places like Brookside Cemetery offer a rich source of food.

When I went, there were about 12 individuals twittering about the Hemlock trees – two of them were human and the rest were avian.  The birds were bunched into a tight flock (and the humans arranged in a loose flock around them). At first appearance the crossbills looked more like house sparrows because they were hopping around on the ground among the headstones.

Close examination revealed them to be a vari-colored bunch. Some -the male birds -were speckled with rose, orange, and off-yellow patches on their breast, back and rump. The female birds were yellowish olive and streaked with brown. All had the typical forked finch tail (say that three times) and all had two prominent wing bars. The wing marks, of course, are responsible for the common American name, although in Europe they are known as Two-barred Crossbills just to be contrary.  Yes, the Euro-name is actually better than ours, but let’s not make a big deal out of it.

In spite of the Europeans, the Crossbill part of the name is universal across the northern globe. There really is nothing else to call these things. Their bills are definitely crossed. This feature is unique among the vast array of bill oddities found in the bird world. Only a half dozen bird species have it and they are all finches in the crossbill clan.  In the case of the White-winged Crossbills, their lower mandibles project well out to the side and the tips do not meet – they are not even close.  This asymmetric feature goes against most evolutionary trends but it is not at cross-purposes with evolution. This is a perfect adaptation for prying open cones. The smaller billed White-winged Crossbills are adapted to feeding on the smaller cones of black spruce, white spruce, tamarack, and hemlock.

When a crossbill approaches a cone (while hanging upside down or while on a loose cone on the ground) it inserts the open beak into the space between the scales and moves the lower (the crooked) mandible sideways. This widens the gap and frees the seeds which are scooped out with the tongue or with a sweeping action of the severely hooked upper bill.  In the amount of time it takes to read those last few sentences a competent crossbill can pluck out two or three seeds. A slow crossbill could probably do 1. An un-crossed bill would be lucky to get .5 of a seed. In other words, these birds are really good at what they are designed to do. It has been estimated that they can extract over 3,000 seeds per day. Hemlock cones and seeds are very tiny (see below) , so it takes a lot to get a lot out of them.

There is one more amazing Crossbill fact that I’d like to fling at you before we leave these cemetery birds alone. The direction of the lower bill varies between individual birds. Some are right-handed (with the bill crossing to the right) and others are left-handed (with the bill crossing to the left). There are far more right-handed White-winged Crossbills than left handed ones.  In fact, the ratio is 3:1. This is not the case with other crossbill species. It doesn’t seem to impart any advantage one way or the other, so it is probably a random matter of genes.

Dorsal view of left-handed and right-handed crossbills

Soon all the lefties and righties will depart for the northland. We’ll have to wait another year or two before we get a chance to see another one at our local cemetery. In the meantime, please Rest in Peace er…, wait a minute…perhaps that was not the best thing to say.

As so often happens, I spotted something unusual as I was driving and could do little within sane driving laws about it. A small group of Canada Geese were flying toward the River Raisin and their route took them directly over the road ahead of me. A group of Canadians is hardly unusual these days – in fact, the fact that it was a small group was probably the most immediately notable thing about them.  There was one bird in this flock, however, that stood out even at 40 mph (O.K., I was actually going 55 mph and I’m fairly certain that I was within 10 miles of the true limit). It appeared much lighter than the rest.

The flock reached the air space over the river and turned to their right to head upstream. For a short distance we were paralleling each other and I could see that the light bird looked more like a white bird. Suspecting a Snow Goose, I vowed to follow the birds as far and as long as the actual direction of the road would allow. I wanted to confirm the sighting as best I could. Unfortunately, keeping that promise would have required leaving the pavement and cutting across a field, hitting a cat, and plowing through a few backyards. I wasn’t worried about the cat, but the rest of the scenario put me off.  I was forced to pull over to attempt a few quick photos. The flock quickly turned about and headed back downstream and allowed me a couple of out-the-window shots before disappearing behind the riverside tree line. I wasn’t able to re-locate the group over the next 20 minutes, so I gave up.

My photos, although hastily fired and ill centered managed to capture a tolerably clear view (not to mention a safely viewed view) of the fleeting white goose. It was plain that the mystery bird was indeed mostly white, with some speckling on the inner wing, and possessed an orangish bill and feet. The view was clear enough to show that it was the same size as the regular Canadians around it and that it lacked black wing tips, and this was enough to prove it was definitely not a snow goose (Snow geese are significantly smaller than Canadians and they have black tipped wings). The question became what-the-heckish very quickly. I should have run the cat over.

Had it of been a snow goose, this probably would have ended things but now it became a personal mission to re-find the bird and get a better look. I was thinking along the lines of a pie-bald Canada Goose by this time – in other words this was snow regular goose (sorry, I had to say it). Like a prowler, I circled and re-circled the route for two days (off and on, mind you). The route took me past St. Mary’s Park on the north side of the river and all the way out to the Raisinville Bridge and back. At one point I noticed a lighter bird amongst a small gang of Canadians down by St. Mary’s Park. This one turned out to be a lone barnyard (gray) goose and was not nearly light enough to be my Mr. White (see below).

Work interfered and I wasn’t able to find my answer until a week later. Driving over the Raisinville Bridge while on a completely un-related mission, I spotted my white goose swimming with his band of brothers. Suddenly becoming overly excited I declared a loud “Ah-Hah!” and ran over three cats while turning around (not that this is necessarily related, but I believe it is illegal to turn around on a bridge isn’t it?). I parked my car, ran to the overlook and fired off some more shots while leaning un-comfortably over the rail. An old fellow named Clarence suddenly appeared and asked me if I was alright, but left after I told him “it’s a Wonderful Life”… bird. I don’t keep a life list, but it seemed like the thing to say.

The elusive fowl “captured”, I set about analyzing his details as revealed in digital clarity. Let me simply say that the bird was probably a pie-bald Canada Goose. Pie-bald is a common term for “leucistic” which refers to an individual lacking the proper pigment to look normal. Leucistic animals display large patches of white or have bleached-out features. Because they have dark eyes and other dark features, these critters are not considered albinos. Like albinos, on the other hand, their condition is genetically based and quite rare.

There are reasons why I don’t think it was a hybrid resulting from the illicit conjugation of a wild goose and the farmer’s daughter’s goose. This bird, as I stated before, was identical in proportion to the other wild Canada Geese. The white portion of the neck mirrors the black portion of the Canada Goose – ending at a clear line where it met the breast. There is even a hint of a buffy patch under the chin where the white patch would normally be. The hind end, which is pigmented, looks very much like a Canadian butt.  There is a possibility that there is some domestic blood mixed in, but I don’t think so.

There was one very odd thing on this bird. An unusual oblong growth on the underside of the beak radically changed its appearance. It is colored like the rest of the beak material so is probably a birth defect of some sort. I doubt that it affects the bird other than to make shaving difficult (if indeed it is a male – or perhaps an Hungarian grandmother). There is no doubt that this was snow…er, I mean …no regular goose.

I’ll leave you decide whether this bird was worth ignoring my Guardian angel.

I was always under the impression that the great suspense movie director Alfred Hitchcock was dead (and English – not that the two are mutually exclusive!). So, you can imagine my surprise when I discovered his house just west of Monroe, Michigan of all places. I was going west on South Custer Road when something prompted me to look north and gawk through the side window. I slammed on my brakes and headed back east on South Custer (briefly facing south while turning around). The something in question was a house and yard covered by thousands of blackbirds. It was a scene straight out of “The Birds.”

There was no sign that anyone was around, so I couldn’t verify who actually lived in the place. If it wasn’t the Hitchcock residence then it might have been the Hedren house (as in “Tippi”). For a moment I wondered if perhaps the poor occupants, whoever they may have been, were trapped inside after witnessing the horrible pecking death of their pet poodle. There was a small pile of something in the front yard that could have been tiny dog bones. Fortunately, this turned out to be nothing more than a piece of wind-blown trash. Since no recent bird-related deaths appeared in the paper the following day, I can now relate this story to you in comfort.

The sight of a million blackbirds is not an unusual one during the cold season. The birds -Starlings to be exact – are famous for gathering into large feeding and roosting flocks. The sight of so many black feathered bodies taking over a house was certainly worthy of a gawk. They were soaking up the mid-morning sun while roosting on the steeply angled shingle roof. The roof itself was a dark gray color but it was rapidly taking on a white-speckled appearance due to the accumulation of Starling “stuff.” Other birds were gleaning seeds from the open grass in the lawn. Still others were randomly flying about in thick black flocks as if patrolling the perimeter for signs of helpless little yard poodles. It was an occupation.

I admit that the whole thing fascinated me more than usual because I had just been thinking about Starlings. I introduced the subject at a garden club meeting on the previous morning. They wanted to hear about alien species and I obliged them. I started out the program by stating that William Shakespeare was partly to blame. In the early 1890’s a group of home-sick European immigrants decided to import and release (in America) all the birds mentioned in the Bard’s plays. A bunch of Starlings were part of that effort. They were liberated into New York’s Central Park based on the following snippet from King Henry the 4^th (Part 1).

He said he would not ransom Mortimer;
Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer;
But I will find him when he lies asleep,
And in his ear I’ll holla ‘Mortimer!’
Nay,
I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak
Nothing but ‘Mortimer,’ and give it him
To keep his anger still in motion.

Yes, because King Henry would not ransom Mortimer, Hotspur vowed to teach a Starling how to say the word “Mortimer” – and only the word Mortimer – and give it to the king in the hopes of driving him mad. This is why there are Starlings in the New World. They went from a few hundred individuals to well over 200 million today. I’d say that at least half of these birds were in that yard west of Monroe the other day.

Upon hearing the Shakespeare story, one of the members of the garden club excitedly raised her hand and asked “you mean Starlings can talk?”  I answered in the affirmative. “Yes, they can be taught simple words, but have trouble with Latin phrases and Japanese idioms.”  My sarcasm fell flatly on the ground as she continued to talk about one of her favorite books called Arnie, the Darling Starling. In this book, a pet Starling was taught all kinds of words (although no Japanese as far as I know) and occasionally drove the household crazy with repetitious phrases such as “pretty bird.” “I always thought that was made up!” the gal said.  She was so relieved and excited that I could do nothing but share in her joy.

Speed forward a day and you have my mega-Starling encounter and a flashback to that great Shakespearian/Hitchkockian drama about birds taking over the world. I returned to work last week and found a copy of Arnie the Darling Starling on my desk along with a very nice thank you letter from my garden club friend.

I can only imagine what would have been like if all of those Starlings gathered at the Hitchcock house had been screaming “Mortimer” and “Pretty bird.”  That, my friend, would be the stuff of horror movies.

This winter, a small winter thus far, has been one of those so-called “invasion years” in which large numbers of northern owls have descended into the lower 48. We trolls have experienced a virtual blizzard of Snowy Owls this season. They come down every year, but this has been a particularly big one by all accounts. The reason behind this influx is apparently based on the ups and downs of the lemming population in Moosejaw, but I suspect it also has something to do with exchange rates.  It’s hard to say exactly how many birds are involved because they do move around a lot.  So, perhaps my “blizzard” reference might be a bit overboard (not my exchange comment, however). The numbers are hard to ignore.  In extreme S.E. Michigan alone, there have been at least nine separate (individual) Snowy Owls spotted and close to 100 sightings over the entire state. Many more have been seen along the south Erie shore and at least one bird was caught on video trying to buy frozen mice at a Seven-eleven using a stolen Tim Horton’s gift card.

I’ve talked to dozens of folks who’ve seen these birds and a few who have photographed them in action. Since I’ve seen a number of Snowy Owls in the past, I felt no particular rush to try and spot a 2012 version myself. I certainly had no urge to capture my own images of these northern visitors because virtually all the shots I’ve seen have been of calendar quality (except for the blurry store video of the before-mentioned offending owl, of course). It’s not that I didn’t care, it was just that I… um, well… I … didn’t want to… call attention to the fact that I have a short lens. You really need one of those huge back-brace lens in order to get a close portrait of a Snowy Owl. I have one of those little lenses that go “whirr” and extend out only an inch or so and ….O.K., I’ll admit to having occasional bouts of lens envy.

Unfortunately, upon hearing about the location of one of these owls in a farm field west of Dundee and having a free morning this week, I was forced to put all reservations aside. I zipped up my little lens (into its carrying case) and headed out. There was a relatively rare Arctic visitor nearly at my doorstep, after-all, and I am a Naturalist.  Besides, the place was close enough so that I could always claim to be just “driving by” in case someone with a big lens showed up.

It is safe to say that 90% of all Snowy Owl sightings are actually white trash sightings. I have been duped countless times by the sight of a rolling Target bag in the middle of a snowless brown field. Many farmers delight in placing white buckets or white plastic things atop remote fence posts. I’m sure there is some practical reason for this practice, but I believe it is attached to some as-of-yet undetermined sinister motive. I have looked at thousands of pieces of white trash over the years in the hope that one or two would turn out to have eyes.

The bird that I was seeking had been spotted in the wide open fields just south of M-50 and just east of the little town of Britton (at the Monroe/Lenawee Co. line). I would have to put up with a selection of Lenawee white trash and farmer tricks before spotting the bird, but there was little risk in the endeavor. The owl had been hanging around for some time.

In short, let me say that the fields in that location were very expansive and very brown. Snowy Owls are white birds that generally perch on or very near the ground. Spotting a large white bird against a brown background should have been quite easy. Snow cover would certainly have changed everything, but the little-lens Gods were with me on this occasion.

After patrolling the area and all the crossroads for nearly a half hour I was beginning to doubt myself. Oh, there was plenty of white trash in the distance. Each resolved itself into either a Target bag or a Clorox bottle upon glassing with binoculars. At one point I was certain that I’d finally tracked down my quarry perched on a fence post. It was the right size and was angled to one side. This sighting turned out to be a white plastic herbicide bottle. Farmers are evil.

After diverting my attention for a few minutes to the mating flights of a pair of Horned Larks, did I give the effort one more chance to fail. I began my slow roll down the muddy road and spotted another Target bag way out (about a quarter mile) in a stubble field off to my west. I glassed the bag and saw it blink. It was the owl.

The bird was a mature male. Male Snowy Owls are nearly snow white (no pun intended) and have very little of the dark speckling that the females and immatures possess. There, like one of those sinless souls that I learned about in Catholic school, this nearly spotless white fellow looked about. He spotted me and my little lens, performed a few nervous head swivels, and then lifted into a low flapping flight that took him further from me and deeper into the center of the field. It was a thrill even if it was brief. It was like witnessing a piece of the un-tamed Northern Lights come to earth.

I did my best to get a shot of that bird – at least one that competed with the store video. My shots serve only as digital proof that the bird was there. In the end, no one else showed up during my encounter so they also serve as proof that I was the owner of the biggest lens on the Lenawee County line during that brief time.

I watched a lone pedal biker struggling against the wind and mud. Out on the Point Mouillee dikes you can see things from a mile or more away. The biker was far down the dike road from my position. Since he was headed in my direction, and I in his, I knew we would eventually meet. Typical of Mouillee, the winds were especially gusty, but they were atypically warm for this last day of January. Temperatures were around 55 degrees at mid-day. The two-track road was slowly melting into a mushy stew and made the going rough for both narrow-wheeled contrivances and hiking boots. Because the biker had a basket on the front of his two-wheeler and was wearing above-the-knee wader boots, there was a good chance that he was a trapper.

The figure paused to catch his breath when an empty water bottle flew out of his basket. He dismounted and bent down to retrieve it – the wind nearly pushing him over in the process. After a slow minute he again straddled the bike and made like he was ready to continue. I was close by that time and hurried my step in order to reach him before he started moving again. By the time I opened my mouth to greet him I noticed a hatchet in the basket along with a pair of heavy gloves. Only trappers and Lizzie-Borden-types carry such implements about. I blurted out a point blank question in order to start up a conversation. “Are you a trapper?” I yelled over the roar of the wind.

“Yes, I sure am,” the gentleman replied while remaining straddled on his bike. He was basically bundled up to his eyeballs but I could see that he was no youngster – or even a middle ager for that matter. I’d say he was in his seventies and based on the size of his enormous plastic-rimmed glasses it looked like he hadn’t gotten a new pair since the seventies. He looked like Harry Carey (of baseball announcer fame). His windbreaker sported a Ford steel-making patch of some sort. His name was Loran, as I was to find out later. “I’m getting too old for this,” he then puffed and shook his head. Ironically, his name was Loran Young.

“Had much luck this season?” I asked. “No, not much,” Loran answered, “but I started late – I always do.” Given the warm nature of this winter his response didn’t surprise me (the trapping season started in early December). Muskrat trappers, at least those of the Mouillee kind, depend on good solid ice to reach their quarry. “I’ve gotten probably about twenty five ‘rats so far. He motioned to the small green sack sitting in his basket and continued, “I got two today.”

Further inquiry on my part revealed that even though he may have started late in this particular season he’d been trapping for many seasons. “I gave it up back a while when they stopped letting us drive our trucks out onto the dikes. We were tearing up the place. I see why they stopped it. But I got to looking at the fur auction prices and saw the prices. I decided to give it a go again.”

“What’s a prime ‘rat going for these days?” I asked.

“They’re getting $8-$12.”

“Wow,” was my immediate, if un-inspired, response. Four years ago they were getting up to $10 or more for the large perfect muskrats. That unusually high price prompted a flood of trappers out onto the Mouillee marshes. Trucks were allowed out on the dikes then, so even inexperienced trappers were setting out to reap the hairy gold.

The present vehicle ban necessitates that all trappers carry their goods to and from the pelt fields via non-motorized means. Bikes, hand carts, and back packs are required tools for transporting trap stakes, bait bags, metal Victor traps, and dead muskrats over the long distance. It makes for hard work and these restrictions have separated the wanna-be’s from the die-hards.  I can’t say for sure, but I’ll bet this restriction, plus the crummy seasonal conditions, have kept the newbies out this time around.

The end of January would be the normal end of the muskrat season, but Loran informed me that “they” (assuming the game area folks) extended the season for one more month. If things stay the way they are, however, it is un-likely that the trappers will get much more work done. “I’m not sure that the ice will come back yet this year,” Loran remarked. He went on to infer that he’d keep it up for as long as he could.

I asked if I could take his photo and he graciously agreed. After my first take, he said “wait a minute” and rummaged into his green sack and held up one of the ‘rats for a trophy shot.  This is somewhat of a trapper’s tradition. I can’t tell you how many black & white, or faded color prints, I’ve seen that portray a young trapper with their first catch – a smiling little boy standing next to a shed holding up a little muskrat. I’m sure Loran has one or two in his family photo album.  It is a tradition that carries through life as long as there is someone to point and shoot a camera.

“That’s a nice one,” I commented as I focused for my second shot. This was a large ‘rat – fat and glossy. “Yes, but you know,” Loran said, as if apologizing for the smaller ‘rat he left in the bag, “a lot of ‘em aren’t this big. It’s all that grass out there. They eat the stuff but don’t get much out of it.” By that he was referring to the vast spreads of Phragmites (reed) grass in the marsh. I approached to examine his catch and we both agreed that muskrats need cattails in order to thrive. The Game Area has been waging war against the Phrag (as it is un-affectionately called) because it is equally bad for ducks and muskrats.

There were a bunch of square wire frame traps in the bag along with the other ‘rat. These traps, called Conibears, are kill traps used primarily for working bank dens and runways. I figured these critters were taken with “Coney Bears” (an odd-sounding phrase unless you know what one is!) and said so aloud. “Oh no, no,” Loran retorted, “these were taken on boards.”

Board trapping is a method relying on ice. A hole is chopped through the ice and a narrow board is shoved down into the mud at the marsh bottom. The top sticks out and leans against the edge of the hole. A carrot (a very large carrot) is skewered onto a nail just below the waterline and an open-jawed Victor No. 1 trap is set just below that.  Apparently there was enough ice remaining to employ this time-tested Mouillee method in spite of the flaccid winter. “I had a bunch of these sets out earlier, “he lamented, “but after a while I couldn’t reach them anymore. I had to pull them out.” I expect he’ll be switching over to the “Coney Bears” soon.

Knowing that he was anxious to get back home where he could skin out his catch and frame it for drying, I bid Loran a good day and good luck. He waved, re-mounted his seat and took off at a wobbly pace. Fortunately, he only had a half mile to go before reaching his parked truck just outside the gate. Hopefully he only has a month to go before receiving his payback via a check from one of the local fur auctions.

The check will be small. He might make a high dollar on a few choice specimens but the incentive to return to the marsh boils down to “because it is still here and because I still can.”

Chances are that when I bring up the term Planaria at least some of you recall memories of biology class. If you didn’t actually do it yourself, the rest of you saw illustrations showing experiments in which these fleshy little flatworms were sliced and diced for the sake of science. Cut one in half and each half eventually grew a new half to create two whole individuals. Cut off its head and the severed head grew a new body while the headless body sprouted a new head – again forming two new entities.  Cut only the head in half and the beast will end up with two complete heads on one body. There is no end to the regenerative abilities of these tiny fellows (although I don’t think a blender-treated worm has much of a chance). One nineteenth century scientist stated that they were “immortal under the knife.”

They still figure heavily in major research today, but you are free to admit that it was the freakish nature of this beast that fascinated (and still fascinates) us. If you’ve ever had someone look at you like you had two heads, then you can relate to the meek little planarian.

What is less known is that Planarians are actually very common members of our local aquatic community (and by that I don’t mean the YMCA). There are thousands of different kinds and few of them are actually called Planaria. That is a genus name of one particular group that has become a general term to cover the whole group of flatworms called Turbellarians.  They go by names such as Dugesia, Girardia, and Schmidtea but we commoners just call them Planaria and we “is o.k. wid dat.”  Should I say this amongst a group of flatworm scientists I would undoubtedly be looked at as if I had two heads.

So, why you ask do I bring this up? Well, I encountered a whole school of tubellarians the other day in a small drainage outlet. A thin sheet of ice covered the slowly flowing water and the flatworms were crawling about the bottom as if it were a balmy summer day. I bent down to get a better look and spotted at least a dozen at or near the opening of the drain pipe. It is not unusual to spot one or two, but to see a whole bunch of them in the middle of winter is worthy of note. I here, therefore, note.

I wanted to get an even better look and decided to de-glove and plunge my hand into the icy water to get one. They retracted into a ball up upon being touched. Using a piece of the fractured ice, I was able to convince one to drift up and re-attach to its surface. It adhered to the ice after I brought it out of the water.

A planarian on ice is a remarkable sight for two reasons. First of all, you can notice the basic body plan of these ditch worms. Many planarians have an arrow-shaped head with two side projections called auricles (they are not ears but look as if they could be). This type had a rounded head with a cleft palate. Look closely and you’ll see the trademark cross-eyed look of all planarians (see detail here). These are photo-receptive cells called ocelli and for all intents and purposes they are eyes (again, I am getting that look for those scientists!). The under view – as seen through the ice sheet (see below) – reveals a lighter spot located past the half-way point on the body which is actually the tubular mouth. These creatures feed on rotten meat, diatoms, and other invertebrates using this mouth. The other remarkable feature in this case was that this fleshy watery creature didn’t freeze solid out in the crisp winter air.

The planarian moved about on the ice as if it were a mere leaf or rock. It skated about on a layer of mucus and I assume this mucus, combined with a hefty internal dose of anti-freeze, is what kept this example mobile and care-free. I, on the other hand, was getting very cold. My exposed and ice-dipped fingers were beginning to lose their feeling, so I had to plunk the cross-eyed creature back into the drink and give my hands the blower treatment.

How incredible it is that the fine little things of nature are so very tough in so many ways.

I do not count ice sculpting as one of my better skills, but I find myself performing it once a year as part of the Erie Ice Daze Festival at the Marshlands Museum. I am annually faced with the task of turning two conjoined blocks of carving ice into a single work of art. Armed only with an electric chainsaw and a wood chisel, I seek to turn a large expensive chunk of ice into something other than a smaller expensive block of ice. My anxiety is heightened because I have to perform this task in front of on-lookers and within a set period of time.

My product has to be recognizable (“what is it?” is my worst nightmare question).  Even though I often yearned to do some artsy Picasso-esque sculpture or a detailed carving of a Euglena, I always end up with easily identified products such as a swan, a deer, an eagle, an owl, a muskrat, and a squirrel to name a few. My giant muskrat pushed the envelope a bit because folks insisted on calling it a beaver (I guess the idea of a giant muskrat is hard to take).  I grew tired of pointing out the narrow tail and, with exaggerated pride, proudly declared it to be a whale just to see their reaction. This year I was threatening to do a piece called “ice blocks.”  Up until the morning of the event I was frighteningly close to actually doing as I threatened. I had no idea what I was going to do. In fact, I was thinking of doing a whale up until a few minutes before carving commenced.

I ended up making a free-form gnarled tree trunk this year and I am o.k. with it (see above and here).  The completed product benefited from a few days of deep chill temperatures and lasted through the weekend. Almost everyone knew what it was, although some wondered why it was. They asked why I didn’t carve the figure of an owl or “something” on one of the branches, but I told them that this was a tree for tree’s sake and nothing can improve it. The interplay of rough bark, twisted form, and stately ancient grandeur – I continued – was nature at its best. Receiving back blank stares after that Ann Arbor type reply, I then told them it was a whale and asked them if they liked it.

Perhaps because of my impassioned defense of trees, the Norway Maple directly across the walk began to weep tears of sweet joy. A cluster of long “sugar sickles” artfully cascaded from an old broken branch wound. The tip of each sickle held a liquid drop even though the temperature was well below freezing (kept in liquid form due to its high sugar content).

It was very early in the season for a sugar sickle, which is why I attribute my weakly executed ice tree for prompting the real tree to pour forth. Normally these tree sickles don’t form until late February when the maples start to call up their sap reserves and maple syrup enthusiasts start boring holes. I suppose it could have been the abnormally warm weather at the beginning of the week that prompted this outpouring, but the artist in me is resistant to that explanation (it is, after all far too logical). I have heard plenty of stories about January sap runs in the past. Let it be said that I did not NOTICE this sugar sickle until after I had completed my carving, however.  “There go hoc, property hoc” I say with splintered Latin (with mercy buckets to those who recognize the intended phrase).

Seeing the wonderful icy lines of the Maple sickle did invoke a bit of internal artist envy. I crudely imitated nature with my chainsaw gyrations and thought myself lucky for achieving a stick creation of a stick. This maple tree, working with spit and the chill breath of Mother Nature, created a work of natural art that shamed my efforts. I then began to look around at other ice formations and realized the same thing. The interlocked fingers of puddle ice are endless variations on a crystalline theme. Their structure is suspended over the grass as a gravity-defying sculpture.  I could go on, but I won’t.

My tree will not last long now that warmer temperatures have returned.  All ice sculptures – both master and amateur works – will melt away. It was with some gratitude, then, that I noticed how nature is putting a few creative touches on my ice stump as it returns to a liquid state. The sun and wind are slowly turning it into a Picasso-esque piece.  I am perfectly happy to let the master ice sculptor have her way.

I saw aliens fighting the other day. A statement like that might seem a bit suspect, but please don’t start backing away. I will not follow up by declaring that the aliens were fighting over the opportunity to probe me. No, these were real aliens – as in “non-native” – plants going at it with gusto. The fight was neither epic nor particularly dynamic, however. In fact, this fight was in such extreme slow motion that it could easily be mistaken as wood sculpture.

The combatants were a Smooth Buckthorn and an Oriental Bittersweet. They were so tightly intertwined that their flesh was nearly one. The good news is that at least one of them will die when this is done. In the best case scenario they both die. Either way, we are presented with a metaphor in this mingling of woods: two bad plants attempting to strangle each other in their quest to squeeze out the native flora.

To be completely fair about it, the Bittersweet vine in this scenario is the more aggressive of the two aggressors. This is the one entangling the “innocent” Buckthorn in its selfish mission to reach the sun.  This is what they do – to great excess and success (often pulling down lesser trees through sheer weight). There are two kinds of Bittersweet to be found in the Midwest. As you might have guessed, the American Bittersweet is the native and the Oriental type is the invader originating from Eastern Asia. Since the 1860’s they have been advancing westward and pushing the native variety out of the way. In short they are better at being Bittersweets than the American Bittersweets.

Their advance has been subtle because the invading aliens look very much like the natives (which makes for the typical plot device in outer space alien invasion movies). No one knows they have moved into the house next door until it’s too late. Both are climbing vines which produce brilliant red fruits surrounded with papery capsules that open and peel back.**

The strangling victim here is not a plant that needs any pity. It too is an alien hailing from Europe. There are two different kinds of Buckthorn here in the Midwest and both have boldly taken over our native woods. These shrubby trees grow so densely in some spots that they form impenetrable thickets and they out-compete other native plants for precious water, sunlight, and nutrient resources.  They choke out rivals through starvation rather than entwinement.  Perhaps their only endearing factor is that birds will eat the berries (even though they may not “like” them).

It is likely that the Bittersweet has already won this particular battle already.  You can see that the vine has cut deeply into the Buckthorn’s bark (see below and detail here) . The water and nutrient flow of the Buckthorn is cut-off as if the Bittersweet had taken an axe and girdled it. It is at the “agh…eck…eek” stage of strangulation. The conquering vine will dance on the bones of the dead tree for many years to come.

The surrounding buckthorns will probably get their revenge, however, as they strive to shade out the Bittersweet and deprive it of sustenance.  Thus the aliens duke it out here on earth and we home-soil  mortals are often reduced to mere observers in the process.

* *American Bittersweets have orange capsules and slightly larger berries than the Oriental Bittersweets which have yellow capsules. These capsules tend to fall off as winter advances, so this is not the best of traits. One look at the placement of the fruits will immediately separate the two: Americans produce a cluster of berries at the end of each stem, whereas the aliens produce small clusters that are equally spaced along the stem.   This pictured plant is definitely the alien species. This has been a public service announcement. Thank  you.

There is an ancient story about how the west wind was born on the back of a she-owl. Her name was Bubo, the Queen of something or other and she was going to die or have some sort of minor operation and… Unfortunately, I don’t remember the rest.  What is a she-owl anyway? Female owls are hens as far as I know. Anyway, I was meaning to introduce this piece with an intriguing folkloric literary device to connect the subject of wind and owls, but I obviously failed. Let’s just start over and forget this ever happened.

Wind and owls don’t get along especially well. This has long been known. When a stiff breeze travels through the branches it sets up a moaning “hoo, hoo, hoo” sound that goes on all day.  The owls are more than a bit jealous over this competitive “hooting.”  They have to wait until the wind dies down at night to do their hooting. On windy nights they have to remain silent and run the risk of a sudden fatal “hoot” attack. No…wait a minute, this isn’t working either. It has never been proven that owls are capable of jealousy. They do die of starvation, car strikes, gunshots, arrows, and farmer guns but never from over-hooting. Please allow me one more try.

I came upon an indignant Great Horned Owl sitting on a dead branch one recent January afternoon. (Hey, this sounds better already).  It was a very blustery day. By all rights, given the time of year and all, the stiff breeze should have been bitter and cutting but it was uncharacteristically balmy.  I had just emerged out of the brush with all the subtlety of a wounded elephant – panting from the effort and even a little bit sweaty.  I was in the process of “taking the path yet unmade,” and in the process of regretting it, when I suddenly realized that an owl was gazing down on me. (O.K., we’re good…you can relax now).

The bird was uncharacteristically calm and did not attempt to fly away. I’m sure he heard me coming from a mile away and could easily have slipped away as owls are wont to do. After giving me the stink eye, this character simply closed his eyes and resumed his resting stance. At least it was intended to be a resting stance but looked to be anything but restful.  His position was on an exposed branch immediately adjacent to a Cottonwood trunk.  Had the wind been a south one, the perch would have shielded him well. Because the wind was issuing from the west, however, it was wreaking havoc with his style. It was buffeting him from behind and pushing up his horns to an extreme extent. The edge of his facial disc was flaring out as each gust passed through. Back feathers were parting like the Red Sea. In spite of all bold attempts to maintain composure, this owl was losing his battle for dignity.

Great Horned Owls do not have horns, of course, so please excuse my use of the term in the previous paragraph (while you are at it please excuse my first two paragraphs as well). They are not ears either. The ear openings are located at the side behind the facial disc. These structures are merely ornamental feather tufts projecting off the top of the head. Their owners can operate them at will in order to express anger, fear, romance, or jealousy …oops, let’s forget the jealousy part, since that has not been proven. On this day the wind was having its way with them. It is not hard to see why Great Horned Owls are called what they are. Them is some devilish looking points my man (or is it my he-owl).

This bird is a probably a male, given his small stature and stubborn demeanor, so my “he” references are not arbitrary. His mate is in the vicinity, but she has the better sense to stick to thicker cover on such a day. Together they form the so-called “marsh owl” pair (dubbed by yours truly) that have nested in Cottonwood cavities in the nearby marsh for many years.  The nesting season is only a few weeks away now, and the birds are getting ready to raise another crop of owlets.

I suggested, loudly, to the owl that he should seek better shelter. He turned his head in my general direction and returned a scornful glare. In so doing, his tufted “horns” were blown sideways in the breeze. The bird took on a new dignity that scorned the elements. “I am the great wind owl,” he appeared to say, “upon my grandmother’s back the west wind was born.”