My latest encounter with a Red-tailed Hawk was not exactly a personal one. It was not upon a wind-swept moor where the noble bird locked eyes with me as it perched upon the gnarled branch of a lone tree. There are no moors around here – windswept or otherwise. In this encounter we were separated by thick glass, the bird was perched on a split rail fence and was oblivious to my presence. There were a number of people standing about me and I only knew half of them.  Still, it was a notable occasion.

The location was not a zoo. It was at the window looking out onto the feeding station at the Kensington Metropark Nature Center. Normally the winter scene would include a busy flock of titmice, chickadees, tree sparrows, downy woodpeckers, along with a red squirrel or two. Turkeys are frequent visitors here as well. On this morning a Red-tailed Hawk suddenly flew in and put us all on notice. Normally such a visit would be prompted by the chance to grab one of the above mentioned birds (not the Turkey, mind you). This bird made no attempt to nab the other birds, but was instead focused on a late season Chipmunk.

The chipmunk apparently dashed under the cover of a downed split rail bordering the feeding area before the Red-tail could lay a talon on it. Rather than give it up, however, the hawk stalked about on the ground around the Chipmunk’s lair for a long time and eyed up the situation from all angles. The bird would stop and try to get a fix on the hole with a side to side movement of its head and then reach out with a grabbing motion of the talons.  It repeated this action time and time again. Leaving the spot to perch up on one of the high posts, the hawk would turn his head back to the original location and return to renew the predation attempt.

The center’s speaker system provided an explanation of the bird’s persistence. A loud “chip…chip…chip” could be heard. It appeared that the chipmunk was buried deep within a narrow space under the log. It could not escape, but was safe enough to give the hawk an onslaught of verbal insults. I hate to ascribe emotions to any animal, but the hawk did seem irritated by the whole thing.

As a (nature) interpreter I am always looking for opportunities to, well… frankly, interpret (nature). I realize that this can be an annoying trait at times, and for some it is annoying all the time, but it is a professional habit not easily broken (it is my…nature). I was there with a few fellow interpreters and a family with their flock of children in tow. They were clearly fascinated by seeing such a large bird only a few feet away. The fact that this bird was active, rather than sitting like a lump on a log (or a gnarled limb) added to its appeal. The situation was unusual on several levels – beyond the fact that this poor family was out-numbered by the interpreters in the room- and it was tempting to point out a few of things while the educational moment was before us.

Most chipmunks are sleeping down in their winter dens by now, but this wasn’t the most fascinating detail to point out. Besides, the Chipper was not in sight. The bird’s behavior was grist for interpretation. Although seeming odd, it was actually in keeping with the varied tactics displayed by most birds of prey. If they don’t make the initial grab they will slink along the ground like cats to finish their pursuit. This bird was a mature bird displaying the brick red tail of the species.  It would be nice to at least identify the bird to the assembled folks.

I took an interpretive jab at the youth standing closest to me. “Look at that tail,” I said “You can see why it is called a Red-tailed Hawk can’t you?”  The youth responded immediately and clearly. “But it has an orange tail” he said – as if to imply that it should be called an orange-tailed hawk. “Well,” I awkwardly responded, “it is…um… sorta orangish, you are right, but more of a brick-red which is why it’s called a…” But, my sentence was not to be finished because I had lost the child. He was looking down at his cell phone screen and wandering away from the window.

I completed the conversation in my mind. “I did not name the hawk, damn it. MOST normal ADULT people would see that color as red. Sure it’s not really red-red, but smart people are able to define things which are brick-red as ‘red.’ You can’t call this thing a Brick-tailed Hawk because that would be stupid. It would be even stupider to call it an Orange-tailed Hawk. The original description actually calls it the Jamaican Hawk and makes no mention of the tail at all!”

So, for my sake, please pretend you are the person standing next to me on that day. Take a look at the video  here (or below) and observe the Red-tail performing some typically atypical behavior. Look at his tail and say to yourself “so, that’s why they are called Red-tailed Hawks.” Thank you for being an adult.

Although we haven’t seen too much of it (yet) in S.E. Michigan this season, a dusting of winter white can be magical. Oh sure, we like to protest about ANY snow – as if it were somehow aberrant or a sign of some shocking global climate change – but I believe we do this more as a conversation starter than anything else. I say this, because if negative snow talk is not merely a conversation enzyme, then this means we are all simpletons with the short-term memory skills of porcupines. No, we are not all simpletons. I have woven more than a few blog entries around this snow idea and I certainly couldn’t be a simpleton! Right? I mean, I know how to break the plastic collar off the lid of a half-gallon of egg nog before opening it. And, I proudly add, have done it countless times. Not even a porcupine can do that (as far as I can recall).

A dusting of snow hurts nothing. It can actually enhance the appearance of life. Such an event places us inside a giant snow globe (without the earthquake that precipitates the fake snow of a real snow globe). Everything is altered. A dead branch becomes part of a Japanese watercolor and the shriveled top of a Queen Anne’s Lace is transformed into a lacey basket. A yearling deer, which is normally a large stupid animal with abnormally long facial whiskers, remains a large stupid animal with abnormally long facial whiskers once it is baptized with snow, but two out of three ain’t bad.

Perhaps the most unusual snow transformation occurs with spider webs. Normally associated with sultry summer days or dewy fall mornings, there are always a few silken webs around to interact with early winter snowfalls. A gentle windless fall will end up with more than a few ensnared snowflakes hanging tenuously on nearly invisible threads. In the absence of a piece of felt or the sleeve of an ugly Christmas sweater, a web-caught snowflake is the best way to view individual snow crystals before they melt.

I took a few moments to examine a few flakes during the latest dusting. After shooing away one of those large stupid creatures with abnormally large facial whiskers, I noticed a few flakes in suspension and decided to present them for your adoration here. The snowfall on this particular morning was in the nature of clumped columnar crystals. Still, the resulting flakes looked like clusters of perfect quartz crystals. Magical? Yes.

It is tempting to assume that these spider webs are remnants left from earlier in the season. That multiple sub-freezing nights have either eliminated all of the spiders themselves or driven them into deep hibernation. I assumed that was the case when examining an artful piling of snow on some scarlet wild rose leaves. There was a lacing of webs between the hardy leaves which held a garland of snowflakes. It was amazing enough that such seemingly tender leaflets were weathering the season in such bold form. Without the snow, the web encircled cluster could have been pictured in mid-autumn. The webs, at least in this case, were not old autumn left-overs, however.

Tucked away in the slight curl of one of the upper leaves, the web-master was still in place. It was a Long-jawed Orb Weaver – extended and very slow moving – but it was alive (see detail photo above). The temperature at the time was 29 degrees F. Fortified by internal anti-freeze, the creature was apparently harboring thoughts of overwintering.

Temperatures in the 50’s from a few days earlier probably prompted it into a simple web-making mode. I doubt that it will feed on the resulting catch of snowflakes but I do wonder about something. They say that magical things happen to all the creatures of the earth on Christmas Eve. Dumb animals are said to speak on this night. Since deer are the dumbest of all, I’ll bet they become golden tongued orators. Will our cold little spider indulge in a tiny frozen gnat snow cone if she collects a dusting of snow? And, will she giggle at the abnormally long facial whiskers on the deer.

No one can own something that is wild, but one can claim some type of ownership by “discovering” some wild thing or having it named after you. Still, Pikes Peak wasn’t owned by Lt. Zebulon Pike (note that the name has no apostrophe) and Thompson can’t claim any of his gazelles as personal property (even though they do have a possessive apostrophe on their name). By this measure, Dave’s owl is not his either – not only was the species “discovered” hundreds of years ago, but tens of thousands have been seen over the ensuing centuries. He can claim some tiny bit of credit for one particular owlet, however.

The owl in question is a Saw-whet Owl.  This type of owl was first described in 1788 by a 40 year old German naturalist named Johann Friedrich Gmelin. These diminutive owls (weighing in at a mere 3 oz. or so) are not found in Germany, but are common fall migrants and regular winter residents here in North America. Gmelin used a specimen sent to him from Nova Scotia- a region known as Acadia. The bird doesn’t belong to him either but his claim remains as the name sometimes attached to the end of the scientific name (as in Aegolius acadicus Gmelin).   Because they are so small and reclusive (by that I refer to the owl and not some tiny German naturalist), Saw-Whets are very hard to spot.  Because Dave spotted one recently, I can bring you this blog entry.

Dave (let’s call him that because his name actually is Dave) came banging on the front door of the nature center early one morning. Dave is not German. He is direct from England and exhibits a gentle “across the pond” accent. So, you will have to add your own internal fakey Dick Van Dyke chimney sweeper banter in order to capture the feel, if not the reality, of his declaration “Oi’ve found wun – I found a Saw-et Owl.” He was so excited and could hardly contain himself. “I ahd to tell somebuddy,” he beamed.  He’s an experienced birder and has seen these birds before, but this one was special because he found it on his own. All other cases involved someone else finding one first and then describing where to find it.  This one was “his.” I knew his feeling, or could at least imagine it, because I have yet to be the first spotter of a Saw-whet over many years of looking. I was always the third or thirteen hundredth in line.

I asked him to show me the bird (willing to be the second in this case) and he excitedly volunteered to lead me to the spot. “You know, Oi wuz just readin Birder’s World,” he sez….says…, “and there’s a paart that sez ‘what t’watch for’. There’s the Saw-et Owl. It sez to look for the birds ah-fter a still noight and low in the shrubb’ry.  I come out this mornin’ – after a full moon and a still night – lookin’ low in the shrubb’ry and oi found wun!” We soon reached the location and there, perched prettily under the protective cover of a tangled mass of grape and honey suckle, was our…excuse me…his bird.

As usual, this Saw-whet paid absolutely no attention to us as it roosted. Although it cracked open one eye to confirm our existence, it remained still. His roost was a classic Saw-whet site with a dense covering for a roof, an airy open bottom, and a location low in the “shrub’ry.” It was the type of spot I’ve eyed hundreds of times before, except that all my spots lacked the presence of a Saw-whet. Dave’s enthusiasm was infectious and I thanked him for the opportunity as we returned to the center. It wuz ‘is Saw-whet alroight.

There was a sizable pile of white droppings under this perch and it appeared that the bird was a regular at this location, so we suspected it would be there for others to see in the future. Even though it vacated the spot for a few days afterward, it eventually returned and has been there for the better part of a week now. Dozens have made the pilgrimage to re-discover it, picture it, and then declare it cute and perfect.

I went back out the other day to see the tiny owl again.  A fresh snow had blanketed the scene and the day was quite cold. Dave’s bird appeared to be perched slightly higher than his earlier choice. His head was completely turned around and his face was buried deeply into the feather patch between his shoulder blades. The eyes were mere slits. The flakes of grapple snow sat lightly upon his puffed out feathers.  Again I took a few shots of the content subject and returned to my office.

It wasn’t until later that I looked at my photos and received a bit of a shock. The owl was sitting on a mouse! (see above and detail here). The grape vine sprouting out from under his feet turned out to be a tail connected to the whole body of a Deer Mouse. Of all the predatory birds of the world, there are few that would choose to nap atop their prey. Unlike most owls, these birds often cache their prey for later use and have been known to wedge captured critters into convenient tree crotches. So, such an act as resting on top of a future meal wouldn’t be out of character. This was the first time I have ever seen a Saw-whet with its prey in hand, so to speak. Actually I didn’t see it because it wasn’t noticed until the scene was in digital form upon a screen, but no matter.

With this “discovery” I have now taken on some unique ownership of this bird. As far as I know, no one else came out to view this bird on that particular day which means that no-one else saw it sitting on a mouse and dreaming mouse-eating dreams. I, the French-Canadian Irishman joined the Englishman Dave and the German Johann for a unique claim on this Saw-whet.

It’s time for one of those simple blog posts.  Nothing heavy to digest – just a basic “let’s talk about the wonders of nature” type entry.  I’d call it blog light, but that might imply that one could get drunk on the heavier stuff or, worse yet, it might imply that “heavy” means important and “light” mean un-important. This would further insinuate that I believe most of my posts to be important – to which you might rightfully respond “well la-de-da, aren’t we getting a bit heady and self important.” This could end up with some sort of occupy e-movement (where you end up living in a tent in my front yard).  Well, let’s just shake on it and agree that in this case light means slightly enlightening.  O.K.? Good.

So, what do I have to offer? My goodness, if it isn’t a wad of hair stuck onto a tree with some white foam attached. I’ll bet Gerry is going to say that this is some sort of animal poo or vomitous evidence of a sick squirrel. No, my friends, this is a Tussock Moth cocoon and egg case.  The cocoon is empty but the eggs are full of spring promise.

Before going too much further, let me explain that such structures can commonly be found along the winter trail.  This one was attached to the protected side of a Red Maple tree trunk. It was located about 4 feet up from the ground. The cocoon was woven tight to the trunk and the Tussock caterpillar that made it used a combination of silk and body fibers to finish it. Tussock caterpillars are members of a family of hairy caterpillars (at the risk of getting heavy, this group is called Lamantriidae). These larvae look like walking toothbrushes with distinct tufts or clusters of hair along their backs.  They virtually shed their body hairs and weave them into the matrix of the cocoon as they go. Naturally, they are quite naked by the time they are encased within their hair house (shocking but true).

The larvae make their cocoons during the warm season and quietly pupate inside (wouldn’t we all like to indulge in some quiet pupation at times?).  Most cocoon-making moth larvae overwinter in these cases and therefore weave the silk into a tight fibrous bag able to endure both water and woodpecker. Our Tussock friends, however, have so such ambitions. Their final result is a translucent gossamer sack. The pupae (the naked pupae, I might add) is highly visible inside. They will emerge as adults long before winter arrives.

The males emerge as medium sized moths with brown patterned wings. The females emerge as flightless creatures without wings.  It may not be polite to call them fat, but they are little more than egg-filled abdomens. Of course, it is their cocoons that make them look fat.  Because they can’t fly away, the gals hang onto their old cocoon and begin to waft pheromones (love perfumes) into the air. Amorous males, enticed by the irresistible scent of delicate woman-hood, locate the females and mate with them. The fertilized female then lays her egg mass right on the cocoon. She dies, he dies and that is it. The eggs remain to carry on the family line through to the next spring.

A detailed look at the egg case reveals a cluster of hundreds of whitish eggs under the dry foamy coating (see above). Each has a Kirk Douglas dimple in the center. The coating serves to protect them through the cold season, but tough shells and plenty of natural anti-freeze also contribute to their survival.

Since the eggs will be in place all winter long, this gives you plenty of time to find a few. If, while you are searching, you happen upon an empty hairy gossamer cocoon lacking this egg cluster, then you have come upon the former abode of a male Tussock Moth (see below). Please note the rumpled empty pupal skin and the dirty socks left lying about inside and feel free to give them a condescending Tussock “Tsk tsk.”

A trail walk during the first gray days of winter often creates a sense of inner questioning. “Where has the year gone?” you ask, or “why is it snowing so soon?” you ask. Perhaps, if the day is cold enough and gray enough you might even find yourself asking “what does it all mean?”  Like an introspective Scottish poet walking the chilly moors we tend to get dark and moody thoughts (“why in the heck am I out here in the bloody moors in a kilt and no underwear” type thoughts). This latter question is a meaningless query – and by latter I mean the “what does it mean” and not the kilt conundrum. Because of the lack of definition of the word “it”, this is an undefined question. How can one answer that anyway – without coming up with the conclusion that the meaning of life is “42” or something like that?

You pass the lonely snow-covered picnic table and your feelings get darker. It is sinking in a pool of water and now useless. It is alone and useless. All the other picnic tables are stacked for the winter – looking as if they are comforting each other.  No, this one is alone, useless, and wet.

If one turns to the Great Blue Heron perching in the brown cattails, it too looks rather picnic table like. Most sensible herons have flown south for the winter, but there are always a dedicated few that stick it out. This one, although maintaining a stern demeanor, looks doubtful about his decision. He is not looking so “great” at the moment but he is definitely “blue.” He is cold and gray and wet. “Why is that idiot taking my picture,” he thinks. “Leave me alone, I am counting the days until spring.  Spring will never come. I hate you.”

I look down to the snowy board walk and there I see that I am not the only one who has taken this darkening path. Several other idiots have also passed by since the snowfall. Although I’m sure the human tracks were made by sensible folks, I am not comforted by the fact that an opossum and a fox squirrel have chosen the same route as mine. I am in the company of the simple and the dim-witted. Squirrels, which jump at the chance to flatten themselves at every road crossing, and the ‘possums who showed them how to do it. Winter opossums will eat other frozen dead opossums or flattened squirrels without thought. What kind of life is that? Are we all opossums wearing kilts? Are squirrels really running the planet? Is a squirrel without nuts a female or is it hungry?

There wasn’t much going on this particular day. A creepy little Brown Creeper did it’s best to stay out of camera distance. These birds are well named because they creep along and pick out insects from bark crannies using their long curved bills. Creepers are pretty little things, but I can’t really show you much of this one because my bird was being creepy and aloof. He made it a point to stay out of reach. Winter has arrived and there is no time for idiot photography. Creep.

By the time I reached the craggy old silver maple by the lakeshore I was ready to admit that I was not looking forward to this winter. I really thought I was ready, but the grayness of the day was getting to me. Then I spotted a potential answer to my useless “what does it mean” question. There was a clearly outlined Chinese character in the bark of this tree. O.K., it was not clearly Chinese but it was Chinese-like (better than being picnic-table or heron-like). Perhaps this meant something like “go forth and conquer” or “life is a determined heron.”  Perhaps it would give me some inspiration.

Unfortunately, I did look up the symbol later and it appears to resemble the character for “giant.” That was about as helpful as “42”. Upon closer examination I could see that the pattern was actually made by a bark beetle. A small simple bark beetle. The darkened passageways indicate the life journey of one beetle grub as it ate its way through the thin cambium layer where bark met wood. Upon further consideration, I  came to the final conclusion that this grub writing looked more like a copyright symbol – you know the “c” within a circle. The circle was squared, but the “c” was fairly clear.

This final thought did peel away the layers of my early winter funk. Perhaps this magnificent tree was copyrighted by God. All the meaning of life came back to me in one tremendous rush. The table was not lonely, only resting. The Heron was pensive, not peeved. The Creeper was creeping and the possums were trotting as they should. The squirrels were feeding the ‘possums through their stupidity. I am filling this blog posting with stupidity. It all made sense for one magic moment.

There was only one small problem that tempered my epiphany. According to the calendar winter is not really here yet. So, my dark winter thoughts were jumping the gun a bit. I might still have to cut that Silver Maple down in order to get firewood and stay warm this winter. Will God strike me down if I do that? Stay tuned.

“Leaflets three, let it be. Berries white, then take flight” is a commonly used rhyme to remember the details of poison ivy identification. At least that is the way we humans remember it.  Although there are many perfectly fine- and many extremely beneficial – plants with three leaflets, there are far fewer with white berries. White berries are generally not good for us and it is a good rule to avoid white poison ivy berries. Again, I’m talking human beings here, because we are about the only complex beings that are allergic to the stuff. Nearly every other regional creature is un-affected by the urushoil found in poison ivy and many of those eat the fruits with gusto.

Although mammals such as Deer Mice and Deer will eat them, birds are far and away the largest consumer. Over 60 species of North American species have been recorded eating poison ivy berries. We’re not sure how many actually like them (most humans will eat liver or okra, for instance, but a large percentage of these folks will do so only when threatened at gunpoint). That, of course, is beside the point. Technically poison ivy fruit is not considered a high-quality food because it is low in lipids, but since wild animals do not pay attention to USDA diet recommendations, they are avidly consumed. Poison Ivy berries make up for their deficits because they are extremely abundant.

For Cardinals the poison ivy ditty might easily be extended to say “when in red, on ivy be fed.” The flight part of the rhyme would refer to a quick “flight towards” and not a rapid “flight from.” I regularly pass under a heavily laden poison ivy vine during my daily travels and always spot a flock of cardinals in its branches.  Ask these red birds to do such a thing in the springtime and there would be blood on those red feathers (although it would be hard to see!). The guys would peck each other’s eyes out over the attentions of the females. I guess it is a sign of divine providence then that the poison ivy fruits ripen during the winter when the birds lose their animosity towards their fellow males. All are welcome at the poisoned table.

Such is the draw to a lush poison ivy patch that the cardinals also lose much of their skittish nature towards humans when feeding. It’s almost as if they know that two-legged gawkers will not approach them closely when they are imbibing on the forbidden man fruit. Thus the reason I could approach the birds pictured here. They saw me, yet they tolerated my feeble photographic and observational efforts.

As members of the Grosbeak family, Northern Cardinals have “gros” (large) beaks for cracking hard-shelled seeds. It is painfully obvious how honking big these beaks really are when you see them in clear focus. As opposed to being perfect and smooth, they are rather industrial looking. This beak also functions to quickly remove the fleshy outer portion of the ivy fruit so that the bird can reach the intended prize: the internal seeds. The ground under the ivy vine will be littered by discarded berry flesh by the end of the month. It also will be littered by poison cardinal poo.

My resulting photographs – especially those depicting a bright male or female redbird next to a patch of snow white ivy fruits – look very Christmas-like. Unfortunately, I can’t bring myself to use these on a future Christmas card for two reasons. First, I don’t send out Christmas Cards (unless threatened with a firearm) and secondly, I’m not sure what message would be relayed by sending out a depiction of Poison Ivy combined with a seasonal greeting. This could be a cardinal sin. If I subconsciously/on-purpose sent these cards to people that I don’t really like they might take it as a sign of affection because they are stupid.  I would be misleading them. People I do like, because they are smart, might take offense and threaten me with a firearm.

Durwood Allen has always been a name on my mental list. As wildlife biology major in college I always managed to drift towards one or two of his research papers as a source of primary material. Although the wildlife biologist eventually went on to national status, he spent a good deal of field time working for the old Michigan Department of Conservation from 1935-1946. Perhaps because he earned his PhD from Michigan State University, I naturally thought he was one of the best (which he was, of course, but not for the limited reason I just mentioned). Among his many publications, perhaps the Wolves of Minong, about Timber wolves, was his best known but the one that brings me to this blog posting was Michigan Fox Squirrel Management (1943).  I know you all have this on your summer reading list but few are wiling to admit it.

Every time I try to look up something about Fox Squirrels I end up with citations referring back to this work. Because the research was done primarily in Michigan it is a great source for finding out why and how Michigan Fox squirrels do what they do. True, these squirrels pretty much do the same thing wherever they live, but they do look -and occasionally act -different when “out-state.”  Their scientific name Sciurus niger, for instance, rather than meaning “foolish brown road crosser” actually means “black tail user” (loose translation, mind you).  Midwestern Fox Squirrels are orangish brown and they only rarely come in black. Out east, however, they often are black, or have black heads with white muzzles and all sorts of unnatural coloration. They were originally named based on an “out east” specimen (by Linnaeus in 1758) and thus the reason for the black coloration reference.

While recently watching a Fox Squirrel dedicate a day’s work towards winter nest-building, my curiosity was piqued. This fellow was doggedly (squirredly?) gathering up leaves and carrying them high aloft to his nest structure.  He was one of our so-called marsh squirrels which subsist on the fringe of Cottonwood Trees surrounding the cattail marshes.  His route from ground to nest and back was a very specific one. At the base of one Cottonwood tree he would quickly gather a mouthful of leaves and scurry up the trunk on the eastern side. At a certain point he would curl around to a branch on the southern side of the trunk and perform a pair of flying leaps taking him to his nest via three separate branches. The leaps are admirable, especially given the fact that Fox Squirrels are not considered to be as agile or able as their lesser cousins the Grays (watch the movie clip here). He followed this circuitous path without variation for as long as I watched him. I can’t tell you how many times, but it was longer than a normal attention span would allow.

My Durwood Allen moment came when trying to discern the finer points of nest building behavior. Rather than make something up (an entertaining, albeit shameful option) I chose to augment my observations with real research results. My observations were clear enough. This squirrel wasted no time at his nest. He rammed the new load of leaves into a side entrance, shuffled them around a bit, and quickly emerged for another foraging trip. The ball shaped structure consisted of a combination of sticks and leaves and was located right up against the trunk of the tree. According to Allen’s work, the typical Fox Squirrel nest has a side entrance, is about 7 inches in diameter, and located 30 feet up. It looks like my squirrel read the rulebook.

Fox Squirrels – at least those individuals who survive centerlines and curbs – tend to built two nests per year. They construct loose summer nests in the outer branches and typically resort to tree cavities in the winter. Where tree cavities are at a premium in the cottonwood tree lines, our winter squirrels construct tight winter nests right up next to the trunk.

There is no correlation between the size or location of squirrel nests and the severity of upcoming winter weather. I guess you could say that crumbling winter nests are an indication that a hard winter is in progress because these structures quickly fall apart if not constantly maintained. Since dead frozen squirrels can’t maintain their nests properly, their bad nests are some measure of bad winters (not a forecast, but more like an Indian weather rock prediction).  Looking at the size of the squirrels, as opposed to the size of their nests, is probably a better way to judge their individual survival chances. It goes without saying that you must remove the road factor from this equation.

Watching my average-looking squirrel leaping through mid-air caused me to wonder how much the average Fox Squirrel weighs. Allen reveals that the average adult weight of his Fox Squirrel population was 28 oz. – or a little over a pound and a half. Any individual around this target weight should have no problem making through the winter. The heaviest one that Allen recorded weighted in at 43.5 ounces – over two and a half pounds. I doubt that portly rodent would have been able to make the nimble jumps necessary for cottonwood climbing. Such a beast would fit in nicely with the current crop of piggish Fox Squirrels that park themselves at our backyard bird feeders far from the marshes.

I was contemplating doing a blog about slug racing one early morning on my way into work. While mulling the topic around my mind buds, I glanced up and noticed a White-tail buck walking across the road. His head was down and he was “on the trail” just like a bloodhound on the trail of an escaping jailbird. There is nothing quite like a buck in rut – you can tell one from a mile away just by the way they hold their heads while smelling the sweet scent of doe. I stopped to get a better view of the beast and all slug thoughts went out of my mind (and, since I am not a hunter, thoughts of leaden slugs did not replace these thoughts). Although many years in a park setting have taught me that deer are basically long-legged rats, I will always stop to look at antlered rats. When a second antlered rat… er, I mean a buck… entered the scene that morning, I sensed a bit of electricity in the air and the potential for a real honest to goodness smack down fight.

Two years ago, I was lucky enough to photograph two middle-sized bucks going at it (look up “White-tailed Rumble” and see if it’s still on U-Tube). For a moment, I thought my second chance had arrived – on a sunny photogenic morning at that.

The buck that initially caught my eye wasn’t all that impressive. It had a decent 8 point rack and the kind of looks that would have earned it the “nicest guy on campus” notation in the yearbook. In other words, it wasn’t one of those mutant body-building hunk type deer, but a decent fellow with good grades.  As I mentioned, he was stalking across an open field towards a thicket edge. His head descended to the ground for a few occasional sniffs while maintaining a steady forward momentum at a consistent trot speed. He completely ignored my presence, even after I shouted out the window to get him to stop and turn around for a head shot (remember, I was armed only with a camera, so don’t let my lingo confuse you).  When he suddenly stopped in his tracks and directed an intense stare at the north end of the thicket row, I was ready for some action.

If a doe appeared, then I might be witness to the fawn manufacturing process. When another buck sauntered out, I was both relieved and ready (there is no way I was going to film deer mating). The second buck was quite large. His neck was swollen with hormonal pumping and long sessions of bush-whacking.  This animal slowed his pace upon spotting the first, but dropped his head almost immediately to “feed.”  The first buck continued to stare, but soon resumed his forward movement. He also dropped his head as if feeding.  Although their gazes were averted, the two potential rivals were obviously sizing each other up.  Animals often involve themselves in a behavior known as displacement when faced with a stressful situation. They may start to groom or tear at the grass as a way to alleviate their internal conflict. We humans do the same thing. When confronted with something uncomfortable we twirl our pencils about in our fingers, or re-direct our gaze at some fascinating spot up on the ceiling.

There was an immediate problem, however, at least on my part. It was plain to see that the second deer had very small antlers. Technically they were four-pointed (six points if you count the two nubbins at the brow) but actually more like sporks -by that I mean those flattened fork/spoons. Antlers are a status symbol among bucks. Fights do not usually occur between bucks of different antler size. The one with the bigger set automatically wins the field and that is that. My chances at seeing a rumble were rapidly vanishing.

There was still a flash of hope as the two kinda-sorta circled each other.  The one with the larger antlers was not all that impressive, while the small antlered fellow was quite beefy. I wondered if body size had anything to do with the “fight or flight” decision between contesting bucks. The large body/small antler deer (the one I am calling the second one) appeared very dark in the morning sunlight. This was due to the fact that he had raised his back and rump hairs on end – possibly out of aggression or fear.  The small bodied/large antlered deer (yes, this is a bit confusing) did not puff up.

After a very brief encounter (which you can see here in this video) the large antlered buck passively entered into the woods at the point where the smaller antlered beast exited. The second buck lowered his hair, raised his tail to drop some raisins, and with open panting mouth, continued on his doe trail (see below).

In the end, there was no fight and I was only slightly disappointed.  As is the case 99.9% of the time there are no contests between unequal males and it was good to witness one of these encounters. In this scenario it almost appeared that the second deer won the “non–fight” and I’m guessing it was on body size over antler dimension. Maybe there is some mental formula combining point count with body mass divided by will and multiplied by the desire to stay un-hurt. Heck, if I am confronted with a muscle-bound gym master with a small head I would also yield the floor. Come to think of it, a lot of muscle bound types have small heads don’t they? At least I had good grades in high school.

On a recent trip back to Michigan State University, I had to occasion to wander a bit on campus. I was chaperoning for my daughter’s orchestra students as they participated in a day long workshop, but I did have a few “breakout” opportunities during the day. It had been at least 3 million years since I had graduated from State and the beautiful fall day was too much to resist. The northern portions of the grounds have changed little since my tenure there.

Now, if you (as a regular reader) haven’t figured it out by now, I am a hunter-gatherer by nature. I seek nature where I can find it. I gather much of my experience up in my camera and often end up putting some of it in my pocket. Even the relatively cultured environment of a campus offers “h-g”  types such as myself some forage chances. This particular trip, although limited to only a few hours duration, was distinguished by variety, if nothing else.

Take the well-cultured environs of the Beal Gardens, for instance. There among the rows of browned stems and stake labels marking vacant spaces, the tendrils of a lone trumpet vine hung limply on its support cage. In mid-summer this spot would be glowing with bright orange-red trumpet flowers but in November only long slender seed pods remain. The label reminded me that Trumpet Creepers, as they are known, are actually native to the S.E. United States. In northern climes, however, they are often treated as troublesome suffocating invaders – thus earning the unlikely names Devil’s Shoelace and Hell Vine.  Wow, them’s tough woids, eh?

The Trumpet pods are not evil, in and of themselves, but these pointed narrow pods each contain thousands of winged seeds which serve to propagate thousands of potential tools of the devil.  On this cool November day, I could appreciate the pod and its structure without judgment. When opened, the trumpet vine’s tongue is exposed for observation (note that it is not bifurcated). It was an interesting pod – n’est ce pas?

A large mangled Yew bush provided yet another insight into small things. This Yew was not in the gardens, but instead was adorning the front of one of the distinguished old halls. Apparently the grounds maintenance crew was in the process of trimming the things back after a half a century of rampant growth. The raw cut stems instantly attracted attention due to their nearly blood red cores (heartwood). I later determined the age of one 2 inch diameter segment to be at least 55 years old. The wood of the Yew shrub was hard and dense and the rings were spaced very close together.  It is no wonder that yews are some of the oldest plants on the planet– some individuals attaining 2,000 years of growth. It is a tree that was familiar to the likes of Otzi, the famous iceman, who carried an unfinished bow of yew wood with him into the mountains. I too carried my yew specimen in my pocket but did not end up frozen into an awkward position by the end of the day.

Under the newly exposed ground beneath the yew patch, a Squirrel skull revealed itself. The campus is chock full of both Fox and Gray (Black) Squirrels. At some time in the past, some poor sick nut-cruncher crawled into the safety of the bushes to die. My immediate question in this case was whether the rodent in question was a Gray or a Fox Squirrel. I also pocketed this example for later determination since I could not decide at the time.

Later, I measured the piece for an answer. According to my mammology texts, Gray Squirrel skulls are always 2.5 inches or shorter. Fox Squirrel skulls are always 2.5 inches or longer. So, you can see the initial lack of identification clarity when my subject turned out to be exactly 2.5 inches long! The dentition (tooth) test leaned toward Fox Squirrel (see underside view below) because Gray Squirrels usually have one extra little premolar in front of each row of molars, while Fox Squirrels do not. This skull had no extra premolars.

Because 1% of Gray Squirrels do not have this extra set of teeth, there was still a very slim chance my skull was simply a toothless Gray. My last test involved a black light and a darkened room (similar to some of the rooms on my old dorm floor back in the 70’s). Apparently, Fox Squirrel bones glow pink when under black light because they retain a chemical called porphyrin. I’m not sure that ONLY Fox Squirrel bones glow pink, but never-the-less, it sounded like some worthless fun. So, take a look below and see if you can tell if my specimen was glowing pink or it simply looked pink under the pinkish glow of the black light bulb.  Either way it was a groovy experiment, man.

Speaking of groovy, my final find of the day proved to be the most mind-blowing of all …like, oh wow man. On a well worn dirt trail – the kind that always develops in the grass angle where two sidewalks meet at a sharp angle – I found a projectile point. Yes, on a shortcut that I myself took many times during my illustrious career on campus (mmmmmph years ago), a flint projectile point sat on the dirt exposed by the rain and the constant scuffling of educated feet.  Because many of those educated feet were supporting distracted educated heads attached to cell phones, it is my educated guess that hundreds passed over it without notice.

It would be tempting to label this find as an arrowhead, but it was not. Based on style, the serrated edge and bifurcated base on this little point (the tip was broken off) it dates back to the Archaic period around 8,000 years ago. This style is as distinctive as the identifying lines on a piece of yew wood, the contours on a Hell Vine pod, or the wide forehead look of a squirrel skull. The point long predates my campus occupation. It even pre-dates Otzi and his kind. It harkens back to a time when the Michigan State campus was only four thousand years fresh out of the mantle of glacial ice.

My campus ramble only took me an hour or two, yet it took me farther than my feet could possibly carry me (and gave me a chance to use the word bifurcated two times).

In late autumn there is alternate way to measure one’s vehicle speed down a country road other than mph. You can use the cpm method. On the outside chance that you have not heard of this, cpm stands for “caterpillars per mile.” And, on the even slimmer chance that you don’t know what I am talking about, please allow me to explain (or attempt an explanation without hurting myself).

The caterpillars in question are the famous larvae of the Isabella Tiger Moth better known as Woolly Bears. You know, those fuzzy black and red fellows who are believed by some to prognosticate winter weather. Note that I said “are” rather than “were” in the previous sentence because there are a few believers that stick to this fantasy to this day. Of course, not everything you believe in comes true (for instance, I believe that someone will come up to my door someday with a huge silver tray loaded with unimaginable riches and offer it to me). Such unverified beliefs are called folk tales – they are fun as long as they are kept “folksy.”

In truth, if the Wooly Bear could predict winter weather it most certainly would. These larvae overwinter as caterpillars so it would be nice to know what kind of winter to expect. But, alas, they have no more idea than we do and so they dash about like headless chickens just before the hard frosts hit. On sunny fall days, you will see herds of them darting across the road – just to get to the other side (obviously inspired by those headless chickens to do so).  They are seeking hibernation sites, but still it seems like a very random process. Oh, in case you take exception to my use of the word “darting” in reference to caterpillar motivation, please hold on a minute because I will get to that.

The point is that on those special sunny days you will often see so many of the road-crossing Woolly Bears that you can literally measure your forward progress by counting them. This is the where the cpm rating comes in. I recently recorded a cpm of 10 while driving down 3 miles of a parkway. There were approximately 10 caterpillars for every mile of roadway. My mph was around 15 and my progress resulted in a ccpm rating of approximately 1 – that’s one crushed caterpillar per mile).

The amazing thing about watching Wooly Bears is that you will notice how fast they really are. I’ve read that these fellows can clip along at .7 mph. For a two inch critter with 16 legs this is a pretty good pace. In fact, I thought that number might be a folkloric figure rather than an actual one. You can’t believe everything you read (I offer my blog as living proof of this principle).  No, I needed to verify this somehow.

I don’t own a speed gun, and was not about to corner a local policeman and ask him to clock a caterpillar with his radar gun. I felt that this request would have been misinterpreted. So, I went straight to the field, employed a local Woolly Bear to walk the walk (see the movie clip here), and then hit the calculator. My math skills are legendary – as in folkloric, or imaginary if you prefer – but I pulled out all the numbers I could manage (see my figures below if you don’t believe me).

Figuring that my subject walked a set distance in the set time allowed, and taking into account that it was a Tuesday and that the moon was waning, I divided the co-sine by the sum total of the weed whacker, and arrived at a figure of  .6 mph.  Even considering my considerable margin of error (more like an expressway of error) this was amazingly close to the published figure.  Further considering that the published figure was probably drawn from the use of a real radar gun (the same gun that once clocked a stationary woodlot going 90 mph), I was satisfied. Woolly Bears can haul their little bear butts at an average rate of .6-.7 mph.

Unfortunately, the cpm rate will soon be down to 0 when the snow starts to fly. So, no one will have a good opportunity to prove me wrong until next year. Gee, that’s too bad.