When fresh out of college, I was still cast in the mold of a biologist and I spoke like one. I used scientific names as if they were nicknames and could roll them off like nobody’s business. Common name were, well, common and not the language of the research journals that I was trained to, well… research. Common names can be extremely misleading since folks tend to assign their own names to things (like “Mudbugs” for crayfish, for instance).  It was only when I entered the field of Interpretation that I started to use common names when identifying things for other people. It was much easier to connect people to an identifier such as “Burning Bush” or “Wahoo” than Euonymus atropurpureus. It was a hard habit to break but break it I did – mostly.

Today, I still use scientific names, but only when that name tells an interesting story and only AFTER relating the common name. Some names have never left my head, however, and they pop into my head before I can even react properly. Peromyscus maniculatus, the fancy name for Deer Mouse, is one of those automatic names along with Turdus migratorius (aka Robin). So it was when I encountered a specimen of Verbascum thapsis recently.

It took me a minute to recall the real…er, common name… of this plant but the name “Common Mullein” finally surfaced. At this stage of the winter anything green becomes eye-catching and the fuzzy verdant leaves of this plant popped out from their brown grass surroundings. The flower-like leaf clusters are called basal rosettes – geek speak for the first year’s growth. In their second year they will each send up a tremendous flowering spike some six feet tall.

The dried stalks of 2 year old Mulleins are a regular sight in the winter landscape, but one must look downward to see the basal leaves that sprouted the previous season. They are worthy of closer examination. Among the many confusing common names of this plant, Feltwort and Velvet Dock precisely refer to the fuzzy leaves of the basal rosette. The leaves are incredibly hairy.

Of course, plants can’t really have hair so the reptilian brain biologist in me is tempted to inform you that these “hair-like” things are called trichomes. Since even hard-core plant biologists don’t use this cryptic term, I will instead simply label these Mullein leaves as pubescent. I did not make that up; it is an actual term with the same root word as puberty in which young human become fuzzy. Mullein leaves, if they could talk would, therefore, have cracking voices and hormonal difficulties if they were human. They are not human so we can move on in relative comfort.

The pubescent fuzz on a Mullein leaves are in the form of star clusters on top of short stalks. They extend several millimeters above the surface of the leaf and create a felty surface that is extremely soft to the touch. In some parts of the country these leaves are referred to as Cowboy Toilet Paper but I will not elaborate on this point!  More importantly, my mission here is to get you to touch one of these leaves on a sunny cold day – put it up to your cheeks (no, not those cheeks…the ones on your face) and you’ll notice that they are warm to the touch.

I was handling the Mullein leaves on a day when the temperature was hovering just above freezing and some of the leaves were near body temperature (or so they seemed). There is some belief that these “hairs” serve to create an insulating blanket of air to keep the tender cells from freezing. Studies have shown that an average leaf will be around 8 degrees F warmer than a shaved leaf even without the effect of direct sunlight. This insulating blanket also keeps the plant from losing too much water, but that is another issue which needs more study. Yet another school of thought maintains that the fuzz discourages leaf munching herbivores such as rabbits and deer.

Perhaps all the above play a role in the fuzziness factor of the Common Mullein, but the heat factor is undeniable. I unfolded the leaves of several plants and discovered dozens of insects hiding out in the warm micro climate. The previous night had been well below freezing and it was clear that all these critters had huddled there for comfort.

Among the menagerie of beastlets hanging around a Woolly Bear Caterpillar, a pair of midges (see above), a Rove Beetle, and an unidentified black beetle with a red thorax were among those present (see below). The last named beetle (which I probably could have identified by scientific name four decades ago) appeared as if suspended in space above the leaf because it was sitting atop a stellar array of trichomes.

I will stop this discussion of Mullein leaves at this point because I realize that once a statement like “atop a stellar array of trichomes” makes it into a piece there is nothing more that can be said.

A crow out on the ice stand s out like a sore thumb. You couldn’t ask for more of a contrast than a black bird perching on a field of white river ice such as I saw recently on the River Raisin. Every time this coal-colored bird mixed in with the resident group of Ring-billed Gulls their proximity became a study in black & white and this idea prompted me to some thoughts. I can only go so far with this thought without quickly becoming redundant redundant, but there are a few semi-intelligent things can be said about this. I do not feel constrained by intelligence, however, so I will simply allow my mental stream to flow.

The lone member of his kind at that particular place and time, this bird was feeding upon scraps such as dead fish, dead fish, and a few more dead fish (see how quickly I became redundant). It frequently stopped to call as if notifying any local crows that it was owner of this patch of flat cold. There were no local crows about, but perhaps this bird was keeping them away. The gulls paid no attention to him, nor did he pay attention to them. For a while they were equals among scavenging birds.

Crows are a very vocal species and when they issue a “caw” they throw everything into it. Their whole body rocks up and down like a teeter totter. When calling (caw-ling), crows typically perch high up on an exposed limb in order to make their announcements. Typically calling crows are not hiding crows – they are in your face crows. In this case, the bird was totally exposed out in the open and took the opportunity to trumpet his thoughts.

What those thoughts are will range from territory, local gossip, and food announcements (see http://www.crows.net/language.html.) They are relayed in a series of bursts ranging from one to nine caws and the order of calling seems to make for a fairly complex crow language.  Since crows can count, recognize human faces, and identify dangerous items such as boom-boom sticks there is little doubt that crow talk is not idle chatter. For instance, my River Raisin Crow obviously knew that I could not walk out on the ice and was not holding a boom-boom stick (it was, instead, a snap-snap box). I was, therefore, not a threat and thus the reason I was able to get fairly close (something hard to do with wild crows).

Corvus brachyrhynchos, the scientific name of this species, means “short-beaked” but, as any observer can see, their beak is actually quite large. In fact it would be fair to say that the beak is “honking large.”  Apparently the original name referred to the comparative size of this member next to that of the closely related Raven which has a truly honking large beak. Even though it fades in contrast with that of the Raven, this substantial beak is an adaptive trait to a life of eating everything. True omnivores, these birds eat seeds, rotten meat, garbage, and field mice with equal relish. They are fairly competent predators and will catch and kill small critters – ripping them asunder with that large beak.

I do have one more crow thought to present. Crows aren’t really black, you know. Yes, they are very dark and their primary pigment is a deep brownish black.  In bright sunlight they have a somewhat purplish overtone, but they do not express the iridescence of other blackbirds such as grackles. This effect is called structural color and results from the bending of sunlight due to feather structure.

An ancient story about the crow tells the tale of an annoying white bird who constantly warned buffaloes of approaching native hunters. The bird was nabbed by the angry hunters and thrown into the fire. It re-emerged as a blackened being but was not silenced.

To the honest human observer they present shades ranging from white to coal black.  Look at a crow when it flies on a sunny day and you’ll see that the feathers reflect the bright light. From an artistic view one can’t properly draw a crow by just drawing an outline and filling it in with solid black. To do so would create a crow silhouette. White areas are crucial to the identity of the crow and to any thoughts regarding them.

The wintery Detroit River flowing around Grosse Ile on a late February day was a mixed bag of scenery. A rim of shelf ice clung to the shoreline of empty docks and boathouses. Out in the channel the river moved along at a leisurely pace – open steely blue-gray water with occasional lazy cakes of ice floating by. On the Canadian side, especially in the vicinity of tree covered Stony Island, the river was full of waterfowl.

Hundreds of birds rode the small waves generated by the cold northern wind. Most were divers out in the deeper water of the main channel. Because they all fed in a similar style, Canvasbacks, Red-heads and a few Ring-necked Ducks formed the largest clusters (rafts). They bobbed up and down as they dove to seek water celery tubers, pill clams, and the like. Smaller congregations of dabblers hugged the near ice side of the current. Most of them were roosting on the thin ice. All were big-rumped dark birds profiled against a white background and all had the same profile when viewed from the road (this is the only way one can view ducks on Grosse Ile if one is not a resident).

Most of the birds were Mallards, but a few were not.  As a big-rumped island visitor myself, I did notice a number of darker birds in the ice flock.  These birds, appropriately called Black Ducks, stood out from a distance.  One pair remained on the ice long enough for me to capture their images and unwittingly allowed me to ponder the subject of Black Ducks. This ultimately permitted me to inflict my ponderings upon you, dear reader. Black Ducks are not rare but they are uncommon enough to warrant a second look. First of all there is the issue of identification.

The male and female are nearly identical in appearance. Both sexes are very similar to female Mallards. Unlike female mallards, however, they have a chocolate brown body with a contrasting pale (coffee-with-cream color) neck and head. The colored portion of their wing, the speculum, is iridescent purple with a black border as opposed to the same feature on a female mallard which is iridescent blue with a white border. The bill on Black Ducks tends to be olive green while Mallards sport a yellowish bill. Finally, Black Ducks have distinctive deep red-orange feet (the species name rubripes means “ruddy-footed”). I would say that this is a dead give-away except that it is very noticeable on live birds as well (note joke here).

You can’t help but notice that my Grosse Ile fowl were pretty hefty (and lazy – note the pile of droppings deposited were they rested). They were extra diligent, however, and were immediately alerted by my distant presence. Both stood up, waddled away to the open water, and swam away with their escort of Mallards.

This was a definite “pair” of birds. Black Ducks form their pair bonds during the fall and winter migration. “Hey baby, want to take a trip with me?” is the apparent pick-up line in such situations. The willing females, thinking about a romantic tryst along the sunny Gulf States quickly agrees.  One can only imagine what a female who ends up wintering on the Detroit River might say to “Hey baby, let’s sit on the Detroit River ice and look fat.” That at least some of them say “yes” to this proposition is obvious in my Grosse Ile pair.

Since the early 1960’s, this species has declined in numbers. So you could say that my pictures are allegorical in that the species is on some thin ice. Part of the blame goes to habitat destruction and harvest related concerns, but there is more going on. Mallards are being blamed by some. Because the two species freely interbreed, there has been some air time given to the idea that Mallards are slowly diluting the gene pool and that is presented as a bad – or preventable – thing. Those nasty green-heads are mucking up the picture. I’m not sure that perception is entirely correct.

On an evolutionary scale, Black Ducks and Mallards are called “sibling species.” This means that they are very closely related to each other. Genetically there is very little difference between them and, in fact, they may not quite be totally separated from each other.  One well-informed study estimates, based on the mitochondrial DNA, that they separated only 430,000 years ago (sometime during the last Ice Age). That is a drop in the time bucket when considering species formation.

Mallards have a world-wide distribution where-as the Black Ducks are exclusively North American. The Blacks are out-numbered. There are a few traits, such as a slightly later nesting season, that serve to separate the two but behaviorally they are so similar that it is fairly easy for dark-headed drake Mallards to woo unsuspecting Black Duck females into parenthood.

As is true of so many events, we find ourselves in the current age observing what may be a totally natural process. Am I saying that Black Ducks may not survive the whole species independence thing and eventually find themselves back into the world Mallard fold? Am I saying that Black Ducks are still experimental? Yes, I am. So, take your time when looking at Black Ducks because they may not be here ten thousand years from now. Perhaps I am on thin ice in making this prediction, but none of you will be around to call me on it will you?

Some could argue that the worst time to be walking the dikes at Pointe Mouillee is mid-winter. The place is totally exposed and without cover for all but the smallest of beasts. Life, as we know it, is out of sight and mind. A casual winter visitor is left with the impression that this is a sterile landscape. This is true enough when bitter northern blows sweep the icy flats clean. At that time, not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse (ho, ho, ho).  But when conditions are on the “milder” side the starkness of Mouillee can be refreshing. While not bustling with activity, there is life on the winter marsh.

My last venture out onto the dikes was in late January. The first obvious evidence of other life forms came in the form of human tracks. The paired marks of a sled framed a set of boot tracks leading down and across the ice. They led toward the dead cat-tail expanse. Above them, the two-track bordering the Long Pond Unit units were also marked with the wobbly linear lines laid down by bike tires. The muskrat trappers were out. Most chose to run their route using bikes because of the long distances they need to traverse.

With the season only days from officially ending and a warm spell due, most of the trappers were making their last run of the season. I bumped into Dave Venier, a long-time acquaintance and veteran ‘rat trapper. He was assisted by his cousin Cliff and a young neophyte by the name of Zack. Cliff bemoaned the fact that the ice would soon be gone. “We water trapped earlier when there was no ice and switched to ice trapping with this latest hard freeze.”  But, he acknowledged, that despite the hardships, the rats were especially fat this year and that brought a satisfied look across his cold-reddened face. He held up a ‘rat for my examination and the creature slipped out of his gloved hands when I snapped his portrait.

Estimating that perhaps 2,000 muskrats were taken out of the marsh this winter by the hardy set of trappers working this place, Venier bemoaned the fact that the “up and down” winter conditions kept the catch way below normal. Fat hairy ‘rats should bring in top prices, however, and the trio rode off down the dike with a sense of success. They paused to exchange a few words with an ice fisherman pedaling his way out to the farthest unit to try his hand at catching a few fat fish.

Two Short-eared Owls dashed out from the rocks on the northward side of the dike as I continued on my way. I hate that. These crepuscular owls are a regular sight on the Mouillee Marshes but there is no way to sneak up on them– especially when you don’t know they are even there. By the time I realized what I was seeing, the birds were gliding in different directions over the distant cattails.  Their hiding place down in the canary grass was betrayed by only a few scuffle marks in the snow and some soft gray down feathers adhering to the stems.

These owls, along with a host of other birds of prey, cruise the marshes seeking mice – those creatures that stir on moonlit nights and windless days.  Winter cattails are perfect cover for these smallest of beasts because they lean over into dense tent-like formations. There are wide open spaces between the clumps, however, and mice must traverse these open danger zones if they want to do anything other than cower in fear all night. The regular tracks of at least one White-footed Mouse (see below) revealed a successful journey.  Another track, revealed a different story.

An x-shaped mark in the snow adjacent to another mouse crossing highlights the ever-present perils faced by Mouillee Mice. These tracks were probably made by a Great Horned Owl where it plunged to earth to nab a rodent meal. No doubt the fearsome fowl had been eying the spot and decided to make its move on one hapless victim but the result, according to these particular tracks, were in the mouse’s favor.

The owl feet struck the snow in open position and together covered an area of about 18 square inches. That they were not drawn together into a killing crush– a move that would have obliterated the track – proves that the attempt was unsuccessful. What we had here was your basic “doggone it” moment in an owl’s life followed by a high-pitched mouse “Alleluia” moment.

Out on the far dike, the winter walker is very close to the mouth of the Detroit River. The venerable Detroit River light looms in the frosty distance – a place it has occupied since 1885. Always on duty, the daytime lighthouse droned out a mournful fog signal throughout the morning.

Mouillee is located at the confluence of the Huron River and the Detroit. The Huron mouth was completely frozen over while the big “D” river was open along the main channel on the Canadian side. Piles of ice marked the edge of the main river channel.

There were clusters of Tundra Swans and diving ducks in the open water and at least a dozen Bald Eagles speckled the scene. Most were immature birds with dark heads and tails. All were grouped into small packs clustered around a certain dead fish or duck on the ice.

I would argue (to anyone listening, of course) that this January vista of the lower river, as viewed from the outer dikes of Mouillee is truly a beautiful sight. Even the plumes issuing from the barber pole stacks of the Trenton Power Plant seem fitting. It is a view that makes a winter trip to this “barren” marsh a “w.w.w. experience (well worth while).

Fox Squirrels are not terribly social beasts. They will tolerate other squirrels when food is aplenty and have even been known to snuggle in a group nest when winter conditions require it, but they are basically loners. Because they are only mildly successful at road-crossing they have to get together with the opposite sex, from time to time, in order to replace those flattened individuals that don’t make it. I am, of course, talking about mating. The Fox Squirrel calendar is marked for two such mating periods.

You might have noticed that these chunky yellow-brown rodents are very active this time of year and therefore more visible (both alive and in flattened versions). The period from January through early February marks the first mating season of the year – at least for Michigan Fox Squirrels. Yes, it may seem odd that the bitter cold environment of mid-winter provides the setting for the Squirrel Dating Game. Hey, we are talking about squirrels here. The other mating period is in April/May but that event is hard to witness.

Females are only receptive, or in estrus, for one precious day. A male will make every effort to be around any given female when this special day hits and will follow her for days.  More often than not, several males will pursue an individual female. This un-natural congregation leads to an “angry squirrel complex” known among mammalogists as a “mating bout.” True to the name, the males will jockey (bout) for position and actively chase each other away. To them, this is what it’s all ‘bout (squirrel humor). A bout session ends in love and squirrel love only lasts for about 13 seconds.

I’m not sure what kind of bouting preceded the event I witnessed a week or so ago when I saw two squirrels “doing it” in my backyard.  There were only two squirrels present. It was 11:00 am and the ambient temperature was 17 degrees F (that’s  aboot -8 degrees C for you Canadians out there). The two apparently had just attempted to “do it” when I first spotted them. They were grooming themselves as if nothing happened.  But, be warned, that when two consenting squirrels groom themselves in close proximity to each other that means something is in the air.

One, the female as it turns out, was on a horizontal branch and the male was clinging to the main trunk. They were casting glances at each other, however. Winter Fox Squirrels are fuzzy little affairs. This couple looked more like teddy bears than a squirrely pair. Fat and furry, in prime winter condition, these animals showed no signs of any winter stress.

Since I was watching them through a window on my back porch I could not hear any vocalizations but I suspect there were some barks and purrs going on. One text even refers to a peculiar “sucking sound” that accompanies Fox Squirrel courtship (blowing kisses perhaps?).  I could see body language.  Apart from the glances, there were tail flicks and body posturing. When the female turned herself away from the advancing male and lifted her tail over her back, I knew the sparks would soon fly.

The male approached the female slowly and snuggled with her. He groomed her fur for a short while before mounting. The actual event only took a few seconds – as I mentioned earlier, the average timing is only about 13 seconds for this act.  My view of the squirrels was impaired by a diagonal branch and I grew suspicious that this was no accident.  Squirrels usually mate up in the trees but often chose locations that are a hidden somewhat from the prying eyes of voyeuristic photographers.  How they knew the limb was between me and them I will never know.

Soon after the joining was completed, the female ran off and jumped over to the Norway spruce (to spruce up no doubt). The male followed her route, but not in earnest. After a successful mating a copulating plug forms in the female which ends her romantic stage. Males go off looking for other un-plugged prospects and the plugged females begin their 44 day gestation period. Sometime around mid-March she will bear a litter of 3-4 young and hope that at least one of them eventually makes it across the road.

The Conners Creek beavers did not leave much to the imagination. Over the course of two days of observation they shared (willingly or not) most of their lifestyle secrets. They seemed so at ease with my presence that I held out hope that they would eventually reveal whether there were any young beaverlets hanging about. I am a fairly trustworthy-looking fellow and most parents do allow me near their children. I did my level best to look “beaver friendly” and was rewarded.

Earlier in the season, one of the Edison Boat Club members told me that he had seen one of the beavers with a baby riding on her back as she was swimming. She was carting her young down the canal in close vicinity to the boats. Because beaver babies do frequently hitch piggyback rides with their parents, my response was “really!” as opposed to “really?” In other words, I needed no convincing. I trust you can see by now that these creatures never cease to be a source of continual amazement (I am, of course, talking about beavers and not boat owners).

By the time November rolled around I wasn’t expecting to see such piggy-backing babies anymore. The young, if there were any, would be quite large by now. Michigan Beavers, aka “kits”, are typically born between late April and late June. They come into the world with a full coat of hair and open eyes (precocial) and are about the size and weight of a Coke can (slightly heavier, but not much). Given a good upbringing and all that, a healthy offspring could be expected to weigh around 10 pounds in November.

One b-child did appear soon after I arrived on the second visit (see above and compare with adult portrait at the beginning). Frankly, it was a fair sized critter and I would not have known it was a young’n had it not been accompanied by an escort of two very large adults. It was a matter of scale. To one accustomed to watching muskrats any beaver looks gigantic. Apart from being smaller, this kit was also fuzzier and rustier in appearance than its parents.  I only saw this one individual the whole time, or at least I thought I did.  You see, an average litter would normally consist of 3 or 4 kits. Perhaps only one opted to show its face on this occasion or only one came out at a time or, indeed, this was a privileged “only child.”  At any rate, I’m calling this a three beaver bunch.

The trio mulled around for a bit in front of the lodge and this little one stayed very close to “mom” the whole time. Again, I remind you that it is impossible to tell a mom from a dad based on appearances so it is a bit sexist to say “mom” in this case but so what.  After a short spin the kit hitched a ride with the mother-unit as they slid past me (see here). Being too large for a back ride, this little fellow appeared to place a paw on the tail and held on as if it were a surf board.

Mom eventually dove and re-surfaced some 12 feet away and junior did the same after hovering for a few anxious moments – eyes fixed in my direction.  The beavers were showing some impatience with me by this time. During a lull in activity, after the last visible beaver had departed down the canal toward the Detroit River, I ventured over to the lodge side of the canal and momentarily stood on the lodge itself. This was obviously a breach of etiquette and the clan let me know it.

When the departed beaver (dearly departed beaver) returned after a few minutes to find me standing on the roof it performed yet another classic move by striking the water with an explosive slap of the tail before diving.  In beaverspeak this loud and flashy maneuver signals a general alarm.  I quickly retreated and the crew soon settled back into its normal “busy as a beaver” pace.

Later I took a look at movie of this alarm sequence and noticed a few peculiarities worth passing on for the sake of animal behaviorists everywhere. In the video sequence tracking the advance of the “alarmed” beaver, the animal had its snout and head high out of the water. You can track the increasing state of alarm as the relatively calm creature approached and gradually brought its head higher out of the water (see above).

While the final move of this sequence appeared to be strictly a tail thing, review of the action shows that there were two things going on (see above). The head is forcibly plunged under at the same time the tail strikes the water thus creating a double splash. That famous beaver alarm sound is actually a “ker-splash” rather than just a “splash.” Fascinating? Well, I’ll leave that one to you. If nothing else, I’ve proven that Beavers aren’t just for Canadians!

I opted to leave these northern symbols alone for the winter and hope to return a few more times as spring approaches.  School is out for now.

I have rarely been stung by honeybees over the course of my life so I can remember the circumstances of each incident. The first was when I undertook an ill-fated adventure to collect some bees in my front yard. I decided to pick them off the clovers with my fat little fingers and throw them into my red little wagon. Needless to say, one of my fingers got even fatter (and redder) when I was stung and the affair quickly ended in tears. I was well under 5 years old at the time, so let’s not be too critical.

The second time was in mid-winter.  The frozen ground allowed the Willow Metropark Golf course crew to get access to a decrepit old tree that needed to be cut down. Once felled, the large trunk cavity broke open to reveal a large colony of wild honeybees. Like so many Poo Bears, we started to collect the golden honey-laden combs. The bees were alive, but they were moving so slowly that they were easily brushed off. One bee did find its way into the space between my neck and coat collar, however, and zinged me.  Many of them started flying about in short order and we beat a hasty retreat in our big red wagon.

I was around 22-23 years old at the time of that second sting story and probably should have been more careful, but one can be excused for assuming that February bees would take a very long time to warm up. The truth, as I learned then and now know, is that wintering bees are not like other wintering insects. In other words, they are “on” all the time.

Honeybees do not hibernate. They huddle, cluster, shiver, and eat their way through the cold season but never enter a state anywhere near sleep (or diapause as insect hibernation is called). As long as the security of their hive and their food supply holds out, a colony of bees will successfully survive into spring. Any beekeeper worth his honey will tell you this.  They also will tell you how much they worry about the winter success of their domestic bees.

I am not a beekeeper, per se, but my attention is being kept by a wild bee colony which took up residence in one of my backyard maples late last summer (see above views).  Utilizing a cavity which had previously been used by a pair demonic Red Squirrels, the …or shall we call them “my” – colony immediately set about retro-fitting the place and putting  up honey stores. One of the most obvious tasks was limiting the size of the entrance hole by filling in with a varnish-like substance called propolis, aka “bee glue.” Consider this a type of Bondo for bees.

Based on the winter view of that hive, it looks like the colony performed the mechanical part of their task with collective skill. The shiny propolis lining the entrance is easily visible (see below). There is no good way for me to ascertain if the group put away a sufficient stock of honey, however.  Now that the hard part of winter is upon us, I am feeling some ownership (worry) over the success of this hive.

It is best to think about a winter bee colony as a super-organism which functions as one body. In fact, it’s not too silly to say that they act downright mammalian (they bee mammals?). The colony maintains a consistent core temperature of around 80 degrees or so. They cluster together into a tight huddle, with the queen positioned at the center, and shiver. This muscular action generates a tremendous amount of heat. Individual bees will rotate from the center to the outside in order to distribute the love.  Even the outside of the cluster will be well above freezing. Thermograph images of a winter honey bee clusters clearly show the temperature gradient running from close to 90 degrees F to 40 degree F. while the ambient air temperature is well below freezing.

It takes about 30-50 pounds of honey In order to keep this kind of group hug going all winter long. It is worth noting that the winter bees are of stouter stock than the summer bees – they are fatter, larger and longer lived. These beefy bees are constantly consuming their honey and pollen stores in order to keep their energy levels up.  I can have no way of knowing if “my” bees have enough supply to make it, but they did recently show me that they were still a viable colony…at least so far.

Perhaps you hadn’t thought about it before, but with all that shaking and eating going on the bees will eventually have to take a pee (as in B P P).  On days when the temperature climb above freezing, individual bees will take a brief outside flight in order to relieve themselves. The flight is short but effective. Some of the weaker insects do not make it back and these remain still and cold on the snow crust.

There are occasionally a few dead bees scattered on the snow below the tree hole but these are quickly eaten by wandering flocks of Juncos, Cardinals, and various Sparrow species. Because I no longer have my little red wagon, I do not endeavor to collect these yard bees. The warmer days of this past week have provided extended potty breaks for members of the hive. When the afternoon temperatures soared to the upper 40’s the hive entrance was abuzz with winter bees seeking relief.

In spite of their novel urban setting, the Conners Creek beavers behaved as if they were in the middle of the Canadian wilderness (as far as I know). The label “Urban Beaver,” while potentially evoking images of street-wise rodents picking up fresh bark peelings from the Eastern Market or eating left-over shish kabob sticks in Greektown, is meaningless.  I assume wild Canadian Beavers carry mud to their lodges, store cuttings underwater, and slap out warnings just like the Beavers I observed in the “D”.  These were beavers – neither urban nor rural – just beavers doing their thing.

I didn’t expect the beavers to be active after the arrival of daylight so I arrived well before sunrise on my first visit. The spot-lighted stacks of the Conners Creek Power Plant glowed like two tremendous light sabers and cast a bright refection on the canal next to the lodge. As expected, I soon spotted shady forms moving about in the light-sparkled water and was excited to “see” them coming and going. As the sun rose I could actually “see” these creatures.  Since they could now see me as well, I expected they would start to get shy. I could not have been more wrong.

As if on cue, waiting until it was light enough for me to take some videos, one of them emerged out of the water with a stick in his mouth and carefully placed it. The event had an OCD component to it. After returning to the water the same animal re-emerged at the base of the lodge carrying an armload of mud. It walked upright like a small human and plodded up the slope with its cargo held tightly under the chin with the front legs. It dumped the load with workmanlike precision, pushed the wet pile into place, turned around, and walked on all fours back to the water.  Several other loads, similarly delivered on two legs, transported a load of water plants and a mixture of mud and sticks.

A written description can hardly capture this most amazing of beaver behaviors, so I have included a video. There is no soundtrack, but you can include your own mental version of “Whistle While You Work” for effect.  In 1698 a mapmaker by the name of Nicholas De Fer presented a largely imaginary scene of a colony of beavers working on a dam. He showed a line of beavers walking upright with bundles of sticks in their hands like so many merry elves. It looks comical by today’s standards but, apart from the details (like carrying bundles over one shoulder and walking in a line) this part of De Fer’s image is remarkably correct.

De Fer, in that same engraving, also shows beavers carrying rocks on their tails but we’ll have to ignore that one. Beavers do not drag materials in that manner.  Speaking of tails, however, you’ll note that the beaver shown in my pictures had a large notch in its appendage which made it easy to identify. This was the only individual which performed lodge duty. Perhaps it was a union thing?

Old “Notch” then demonstrated how to drag a tree into the water. After dumping the last load of water plants he walked over the top of the lodge and latched onto the trunk of a small freshly downed Cottonwood. Gripping it near the cut end with his powerful jaws he dragged it down the sloping face and into the canal.  Finally he dove, taking the entire tree with him, and wedged the trunk into the canal bottom adjacent to the lodge.

If this were a PBS nature show, the accented voice of the narrator would explain that “Like all beavers, Notch was building up a food supply for the winter by creating an underwater stockpile of branches. Beavers don’t eat wood; they are bark eaters which will depend on this supply to get them through the long northern winters.”  Of course, they would then show an underwater view of the beaver placing the branch into the food cache. I was not able to do that because my camera is not cleared for water duty, but you can imagine that part when you view my video.

Our imaginary accented narrator would have brought up an important point, however. Beavers chew wood in order to fell trees. They do not eat it. Those trees with non-palatable bark are used to build dams and lodges. Willows, poplars and cottonwoods – trees with tasty bark – are neatly cleaned of their bark before they are used for building. There was plenty of evidence about the Conners Creek lodge for both activities. A hungry beaver can strip off the bark layer of a branch with incredible precision.

My next visit to the Conner Creek Castor Casa revealed even more fascinating details of beaver life and I’ll cover that in Part III (Return of the Castor). Fortunately, upon learning that these critters were not night owls, I was able to sleep in before embarking on my next visit. That was a slight beaver joke, by the way: embark as in bark as in not that funny but still a good way to end a piece. Perhaps if I had stated that with a slight English accent it wood have gone over better.

Ray Dushane shows Jim the Fine Points

Like it or not, I am going to talk about naked muskrats again. Turn away and cover your eyes, ye avoiders of meat, because I will be showing blood. Cover your ears, ye traditional meat eaters for you shall hear of eating “rat.” Speak not, ye “Stream of consciousness” talkers, for what I am about to discuss rat meat and ask that the phrase “ewwwww” not dominate your vocabulary.   I am doing this because the day after Christmas was muskrat preparation day at the Monroe Boat Club and I was there to assist in the preparation and I (as you may know if you are a regular reader) cannot not talk about muskrats for any extended period of time.

Father and daughter pick’n ‘rats

Some 200 muskrats awaited the cleaning crew at the Monroe Boat Club on that morning. It has been a long tradition to clean the carcasses on Dec. 26^th and to serve them at a muskrat dinner on the following week. I brought my son Jim and daughter Katelyn along to assist in the cleaning. The ‘rats in question came from a trapper in Napoleon, Ohio and were already “cleaned” by most standards. The post-Christmas re-cleaning involved further removal of the so-called musk glands and all the fatty deposits (see here – re-cleaned ‘rat above and pre-cleaned ‘rat below). Once re-cleaned they will be par-boiled in water and later re-cooked for the actual dinner (served in a sea of creamed corn next to a mountain of mashed potatoes).

This year’s crop of muskrats were especially robust and fat. When these Napoleon ‘rats met their Waterloo they were well fed. We all agreed that one of the bodies looked more like that of a woodchuck than a ‘rat but it was processed anyway. Each carcass had to be probed and picked with proctolist-like precision. Under the shoulder blades, between the thigh muscles, inside the body cavity, along the back – there was no bodily space place un-examined by the cleaning crew.  It is a labor of love.

Jim was a first-timer at this and was placed right next to veteran ‘rat cleaner Ray Dushane in order to absorb all the fine points of the activity. Unfortunately this meant that all his ‘rats had to pass muster before being placed on the finished pile (see beginning picture – note extreme attention on his part). My daughter and I simply hid our products under the pile whenever we were tired of cleaning any particular carcass. Jim is now an expert but his hands still smell like muskrat fat.

My real reason for bringing all this up, however, is the opportunity to explain how one can love something and kill it at the same time. It is a chance to illuminate a fine point of cultural identity. I will fail at both because I have consistently failed at this in the past.

I have a book about muskrats floating around in my head. Once I get past the introduction the rest should flow – like a sink un-plugged by Draino or a toilet….never mind. The introduction remains my mental plug.  Because the book would deal not only with the muskrat as an animal (life, ecological relationships and all that)  but also with the muskrat as a cultural animal, there will be a lot of talk about dead muskrats. The identity of this creature is intimately tied with human culture. A majority of this connection concerns the pelt and the meat – which means that a majority of the muskrat/human interaction over the centuries involves live people and dead muskrats. Therefore, my job is to explain how one can literally love a creature to death and still love it in life.

Unfortunately, even the spiritual type connection requires that the poor little ‘rat must die. The muskrat saved the world in most versions of the Odawa Nanabozo tales but invariably dies in the attempt.  About the only live muskrats in human culture are the little known Jerry Muskrat tales of Thornton Burgess and that insipid track recorded by the Captain and Tenille.  Jerry and the Captain are not responsible for the special nature of the muskrat in the human world. To be perfectly frank, live muskrats tend to creep people out anyway simply because they are rodents (large mice) who live in marshes (mud) and have the word rat attached to their persona (confirming the presence of their naked tail).

You should be able to perceive my problem by this point in time. I have used way too many words in the effort to reach the point at which I can state my case. In fact, the previous sentence even uses too many words (such as the multiple use of “point”).  Let me just say it and be done. It’s time for the Draino to take effect, so to speak.  Muskrat love is a regional phenomenon involving a distinct cultural identity revolving around a particular animal in a particular place. It is the cultural equivalent of one of those pin-point icons that show a location on a Google map.

From the regional (S.E. Michigan) French-Canadian side of things, the muskrat provided both fur and food. Long after the beavers were gone, the muskrat provided. Because it was a water creature it could be eaten during Lent – saving many a starving Frenchmen during the War of 1812. The preparation of the carcasses reached the level of priestly preparation for the High Mass involving certain “must-do” steps. Secret family ‘rat recipes evolved and bridged the generations.

So, you see, the loss of the muskrat would be as culturally damaging as the loss of buffalo to western tribes, salmon to the N.W Natives or Crawdaddies to Louisianans. It would not be fatal but would result in the fraying of regional cultural fabric.  That is why we will never allow the muskrat to vanish and why we love the creature.

Wow, that was heavy, eh?  Just one more thing, just in case you are still holding out on this dead ‘rat thing. Muskrats reproduce like rabbits. It is near impossible to eliminate them and they will always have a place to die as long as a Frenchman has anything to say about it.  They – that is the species – will be dancing on our graves long after we are gone.

You are now ready to view this picture. Happy New Year.