Me thinks it was Henry David Thoreau who once said that the Bluebird “carries the sky on its back.” That is indeed an apt physical description of this intensely blue-backed bird which has come to represent all that is cheerful, sunny, and happy. No one wants the Starling of Sickness or the Fickle Flicker of Foul Play to perch upon their doorstep. Instead, it is the legendary Bluebird of Happiness that is expected to deliver those blue skies of spring and summer.  It is best to be cautious about these things, however.  These beautiful birds can also bear tidings of snow and cold gray skies upon their blue backs. A winter bluebird offers no more promise of spring than the Robin of Regret. The fact is, Robins overwinter and so do Bluebirds. The sight of a bluebird this time of year simply means “cloudy with a chance of flurries” but that is not a bad thing.

No matter what the season, the sight of these red, white and blue birds can never be considered a bad thing. It is safe to say that they are even more stunning when framed against a white winter landscape. I encountered a flock of these birds in the winter landscape of the Petersburg Game area the other day. It was cloudy with sporadic snow flurries that afternoon, but the birds added a welcome dash of color to it. There were about ten birds in the group and they all proved to be very timid.  I bring you evidence of my encounter in the form of a few hard earned photos.

My sighting, though welcome, wasn’t especially remarkable. This past season, around 40 bluebirds were counted in one regional Christmas bird count. They are now a regular feature of these counts. Their numbers have increased over the past few decades due to conservation efforts and bluebird house projects, not to any change in winter conditions. It is has been estimated that as much as one-third of any given eastern bluebird population will overwinter in their North Country range. It is a risky ploy. During some winters, such as those of the late seventies, all or most of a wintering group of birds will not survive due to the effects of severe cold, exposure, and starvation. Bluebirds are meant to be blue from warmth, not blue from being frozen stiff.

All these winterers ask of their cold weather habitat is that it provides good cover and food. Cover wise, they will cluster into dense thickets to avoid chilling winds. Some birds have been recorded using bluebird houses as winter roosting sites during especially cold periods. In these cases a half dozen birds may huddle together within the cramped space – sharing warmth and possibly telling each other summer stories until the worst is past.

Throughout the warm season, these small thrushes are insect eaters. During the cold season they switch to fleshy fruits such as dogwood berries and rose hips. Sumac berries are an especially important late winter food. It was no accident that “my” little gang of blues spent most of their time in the smooth sumac thickets (like shown in the first photo) or in the wild rose tangles (see here).

In these pictures, the male birds are easy to identify with their bright blue backs, ruddy chests and white bellies (see above). The Females possess a much more subtle coloration consisting of pale blue with a hint of redness (see below). I hate to call her dull. You never call a female dull because it is like referring to hip padding or slightly large thighs. Let’s just say she exhibits a “laid-back but assured look.”

A letter to the editor of the New York Times, written Jan. 22, 1901 by Emily Morton of upper New York State, perhaps puts the best spin on this winter bluebird thing while putting in a good word for the “laid back” females of the species. She writes: “…we have bluebirds all the winter months; they sing, too, on the milder sunny days, and can be seen flitting about even in the coldest weather, if the sun shines. There is one female, which is always more intelligent than the male, picking off juniper berries tied on a little branch directly in front of my window.”

O.K., we’ll leave it at that if it’s alright with you.

You know, I can remember seeing my first real Lasioptera hungarica like it was yesterday. In fact, it was only yesterday that I found myself staring into the face (or in the general area of a face if it had one) of my first ever Hungarian Gall Midge. Yes, I know you are green with envy and perhaps even jealous with rage, but I can’t control your mis-placed emotions. I offer no apology because none is required.  I earned that privilege, dog-gone it. I earned it because of hard work, persistence and darn good luck and if you insist on going off on some hissy fit just because YOU weren’t there, well all I have to say is that it looks like SOMEBODY didn’t get enough candy hearts for Valentine’s Day.

Listen to me, if you combine the words “I” with “earned”, as in “I earned,” you get a word that looks like “learned.” True, this is just because a capitol “i” and a lower case “L” look kinda similar in this particular font, but SO what. Yes, I earned the right to learn and now I am going to share my learning with you. Ha, doesn’t SOMEBODY feel sheepish about now, eh!? After all you just said, you should be a-s-h-a-m-e-d of yourself. Well, for your information I DIDN’T get enough candy hearts either! They disappeared from my store shelves two days before Valentine’s Day while I was out earning some learning. How about them apples, eh?

Sorry, I need to lay down a minute while my wife goes out for some valentine hearts. I have a prescription.

O.K., now, where were we. Oh yes, the case of the minute Lasiopteran. Well, in spite of my earlier sugar deprived statement, I really didn’t find that little Hungarian all by myself. I was led to it by a Downy Woodpecker. These diminutive black & white birds are well-known for their wood chiseling skills. Hardly a winter walk passes where I don’t hear and/or see one of these guys diligently pecking away at some rotted branch in order to reach the juicy grubs hidden within. They ain’t called wood-peckers for nothing. But, it has come to my attention recently, like some candy heart thought balloon, that I have been seeing an inordinate number of downy woodpeckers working the reed beds lately. That heart balloon declared that “Woodpeckers is Reedpeckers 2” (It’s one of those really big heart candies with……….no, I am diverging again).

By reeds, I am referring to the Common Reed or Phragmites- those graceful but obnoxious plume-topped invaders that have all but choked out our Great lakes wetlands. These things grow in extremely dense beds and leave barely a foot of space between their tall jointed winter stems. Frankly, there is nothing good to say about them because of their severe impact on our wetland ecosystems. In short, they deserve valentine heart candy messages like “Die” or “Go Home.” Of course, nothing is that simple. Phragmites don’t understand English and they are not entirely alien to this continent, but that is a topic for another time. Downy Woodpeckers are the topic for this time. At least they are trying to earn some kind of living off of these pesty plants.

In a way, it is perfectly natural for Downy Woodpeckers to explore the inner resources of reed stems. They frequently probe into cat-tail stems and New York Ironweed stalks looking for stem-boring insects. They are experts at grabbing onto thin vertical perches as well. When pecking away at a reed, they grab on for dear life and deliver just enough blows to remove a sliver of the tough stem (see above and here). They pluck the prize out of the newly created window with a deft flip of the tongue and then move on. I became curious as to what these little prize packets actually were.

Getting access to random woodpecker holes within a bed of reeds is not easy. It took a few days before a fresh excavation came to me. Well, I actually approached the plant and not it me (it would be pretty weird to have a phragmites plant, with a hole in its head, walk up to me– sounds like a sugar induced dream dosesn’t it?).  In short, A downy few uppy and awayee from a reed stem close to the trail and left evidence of her work behind (see below). I split the hollow stem open and uncovered the prize in the form of a tiny yellowish larvae rolling around inside. This was the Hungarian Midge.

There are plenty of insects that feed exclusively on Phragmites. In Europe there are some 140 species that feed on this plant and at least 21 of them have successfully completed the overseas journey to our country. Many of these critters feed on the pithy interior of the hollow stems and a majority of these pith-eaters are yellowish non-descript worms.  Unfortunately, like conversation hearts without messages on them, they all look pretty much alike to the un-trained eye.

The telling thing about this non-descript grub was the black interior of the stem section in which it rolled about (see below & detail here). When the female Hungarian Midge lays her eggs in the green stem of a growing reed, she also introduces a type of fungus. This fungus forms a black mat of threads upon which the young larvae feed. The black fungus association is unique to the Hungarian Gall Midge. Up to 300 larvae can be found over-wintering inside one of these sooty chambers. In our case, there was only one lone and traumatized little larvae left –the rest of his winter mates were rolling about inside the belly of a reed-pecker.

Should we now shoot all Downy Woodpeckers because they are eating a potential biological control agent? No. These midges appear to do little if any real harm to their hosts. They leave no visible signs of damage on the stem either, which makes it all the more remarkable that the woodpeckers are able to locate them so efficiently.

So, what have we learned here? First of all, Downy Woodpeckers are apparently adding some exotic food to their menu. Secondly, alien plants can come with a host of  equally alien insects. Thirdly, never try to write a blog when thinking about other things, such as conversation hearts for instance, because it tends to skew the conversation a bit.

Short-tailed shrews, all shrews in fact, live their frantic little lives just a few minutes ahead of death. The grim reaper starts nipping away at their pink hairless newborn rears from the get-go and never relents until catching up – an event which usually occurs in less than 18 months and often within a single year. As few as 6% of any generation of shrews will live to see the following spring due to the efforts of the reaper’s assassins: predation (the grim raptor, for instance), disease, starvation, parasitism, and even nervous breakdown.

So, the sight of a dead shrew on a crisp winter morning should hardly merit any deep attention, right? Well, this one – laying still and silent on the walkway covered by a light dusting of snow – did catch my eye. My attention was claimed not because the poor little thing was dead but because there appeared to be no obvious reason for it to be dead. This alerted my inner Sherlock Holmes response.

I have read of at least one instance of a shrew dying from fright due to a clap of thunder and there are numerous accounts of these beasts starving to death after only 24 hours without food, but I found it hard to believe that either of these circumstances was involved. Thunderstorms are rarer than hen’s teeth during winter and I failed to see why this individual would just suddenly stop, drop, and roll over in the middle of a walkway.  I could, however, rule out an extreme case of intestinal gas or an inner attack of parasites because the thing had a small puncture hole in the back of his head. This, combined with the mussed fur and the presence of a few adherent cat-tail seeds, pointed toward an act of unfulfilled predation. Yes, my dear sirs and madams, this was a shrewicide.

It was a bloodless scene. Even though it looked as if there were blood about the shrew’s nose, this redness was due to being dead and frostbitten. What looked to be a raw piece of flesh nearby was only a bud cluster from a red maple. The puncture wound was deep but clean, my dear Watson, and it alone could have been the means of death. However, the fur about the mid-section was swirled and matted as if it had been slobbered upon and fatally crushed within the grip of some spitty assailant. I believe this to be the primary cause of death.

Having seen this circumstances many times, I, er…my inner Sherlock rather…should say this one was killed by a Red Fox. The canine killer seized his victim in the nearby marsh, brought it up to the walkway, and abandoned it to the elements.

This is the point in the story where my inner Watson agrees to certain parts of the deduction but claims some confusion as to the details. The fox connection is clear enough since Moriarity would never involve himself in such a small crime. It has been well documented that Red foxes are known for killing shrews then leaving them untouched. Other predators, such as cats and coyotes will also do this, but foxes seem to have the corner on this market. One study conducted in northern Michigan followed nearly a 1,000 miles of winter fox trails and discovered dozens of whole dead shrews along the way. In 1908, a naturalist reported over 20 dead shrews laying about the entrance of a fox den!

Short-tailed Shrews have a pair of glands on their flanks and a large belly gland that exudes musty secretions.  These glands are employed in marking territories but they also tend to discourage predation. The acting principle here is that a consumer will not eat a jelly filled donut if it smells and tastes like ear wax. This principle has no affect on owls, who eat them with gusto (a jelly donut is a jelly donut). Shrew remains do show up in fox droppings too, but not too often. They are negatively influenced by this chemical smearing. Why do they bother killing shrews if they don’t like them? It is believed that foxes often react with instinctive killer efficiency when spotting small running mammals. In other words, kill first then ask questions later. If the answer comes in the form of a shrewy mouthful of bad taste then the thing is dropped.

Short-tailed Shrews also happen to be venomous. Should they land a nifty little bite while engaged in a death struggle they can inject some distasteful nastiness. There is enough toxin in one shrew to kill 20 mice, according to one study, and to leave a significant tingle in the lips of an overanxious fox. I do wonder if the scientists in that study actually lined up a bunch of mice and invited them in one by one – the nurse poking her head through the door and saying “next” to the terrified mice in the waiting room, but this is neither here nor there. That the dead shrew in question was there on the pavement was enough to prove just how nasty shrews can be.

Inner Watson did ask one more question upon summing up this case. How is it that you deduce that the shrew was killed in the nearby marsh and not right there on the walkway? My inner Holmes placed his fingertips together and leaned forward in his chair to answer his partner. “The cat-tail seeds adhering to the victim’s body fur were incorporated into it, you see. They were stuck onto to the dried slobber rather than randomly blown upon it,” he replied. “Our careless Reynard dove upon his prey amid the fluffy cat-tail heads. He got a mouthful of shrew and fluff and carried the disgusting combination over to the path before realizing his mistake.”

With that last interaction, I stopped talking to myself and moved on. The tiny body was missiled back over the hedge and into the marsh from whence…er, where… it came.

I am about to do something for which I must apologize ahead of time. I am going to talk to you about some birds that came to my feeder. Normally this type of thing would not be a part of my venue for a number of reasons. First of all, unless something dramatic happens such as a Cooper’s Hawk attack or the appearance of some rare Siberian finch, there is little to actually relate except a listing of everyday species. Secondly, and most importantly in my case, I do not have a bird feeder. I never have and probably never will operate a feeding station at my current house. I will often explain the second issue by saying that “my” birds have plenty of natural forage on my acre and a half to survive on their own, but the true reason is that I am simply too lazy. Now, knowing the above facts, please allow me to continue.

Recently, I was the recipient of a medium sized bag of assorted bird feed which placed me into a position of professional compromise. I normally don’t feed because I don’t normally get feed but when suddenly with feed I had no choice but to feed it – to the birds for which they were intended, in other words. Do you follow? I decided to pour the contents of the bag on top of an old barrel which decorates our front yard. It provided a perfect surface for a feeder because it was located within easy view of my entryway. What followed was fascinating. Birds came, you see, but not right away.

The situation presented an opportunity to do a bit of an experiment. I wondered how long it would take before the bounty was discovered. As creatures of habit, birds are prone to visit their favorite feeding stations like clockwork. In fact, for those of you who do operate feeding stations, you know that the feathered patrons will often hang around and stare at you until you re-fill an empty feeder. It’s all about guilt. But, how do these purveyors of guilt uncover new situations like mine?

It took about a week before the pile was discovered. A light dusting of snow had covered the assortment of millet, thistle, sunflower, and peanuts by then, but the feeder suddenly became a bustling city of gluttony on one cold Saturday morning. It happened all at once and apparently out of the blue. The big feed lasted for several days and was over as quickly as it began. It was if I had planted bird seed, added a sprinkling of moisture, and watched it explode into a crop of birds.  I had a blooming bird Chia Pet. (Yes, I know you regular “feeder types” out there are saying “well, duh…that’s the idea,” but hold on a minute).

The guest list initially included the usual suspects. Black-capped Chickadees were the first on site in the very early dawn. Tufted Titmice, Cardinals, White-breasted Nuthatches, House Sparrows, and Blue Jays soon followed. Each plundered in their own way. The Blue Jays grabbed the peanuts and flew off to a selected perch to hammer their prize open. The Chickadees and Titmice did the same with the sunflower seeds. The cardinals and house sparrows planted their selves in the middle of the pile and employed their heavy beaks to shear open seed husks. There was nothing out of the ordinary with this crew.

Both of my local squirrels, the Fox and Red variety, also stopped in for a bite or two or a hundred. Again, this was to be expected. My interest was piqued, however, when a large flock of House Finches arrived on the scene (see above and here). These birds are common enough yard birds, but I’d not seen any in my neck of the woods for some time. Now there were a few dozen of these red-splashed finches within a few feet of my front door.  The females are without the reddish hue, but instead are marked by prominent brown and cream streaking. A lone Goldfinch, dressed in somber winter wear, joined his fellow finches for a feed (see here – the bird at the lower right). Like their old-world relations the House Sparrows, the House & Gold Finches also crack their seeds with a shearing action by their robust beaks.

A single male Red-bellied Woodpecker stopped in for a sampling (see below) but was intimidated by the nervous actions of the finches. A whole host of puffy Dark-eyed juncos paid a visit, but then again these guys are a regular feature of my “naturally endowed” yard. Like many older folk, I find it hard to call these little gray and white birds by this name, having grown up with much more descriptive name of “Slate-colored Juncos.”  I also have a real problem with calling Old Squaw Ducks with the blander, and current title, of Long-tailed Duck but that is neither here nor there.

Fortunately, there were no Old Squaw Ducks or Long-tailed Ducks at my temporary feeder to worry about but there was at least one unusual visitor in the form of a gimpy female Cowbird (see below). This species is typically a migrant – heading south to avoid the bitter teeth of winter. There are exceptions to every natural rule, so it is not un-heard of to see Cowbirds overwintering but it is a tad unusual. This bird was obviously nursing a bum right leg, although she didn’t appear to be worse for wear. No doubt she was eyeing up her fellow feeder mates to determine which one would eventually raise her young this spring (they are nest parasites).

The most surprising visitor was a single Carolina Wren who showed up late in the day. He probed the ground around the base of the barrel for seed and only allowed for a few fleeting views before moving on. True to their name, these hefty wrens originated in the southern U.S. They have slowly spread into the Great Lakes region over the past twenty years or so to the point where they are now regular summer residents and consistent winter residents as well. This has been a bad winter for these wrens for some reason so they have not been as prominent as in years past.  Normally insect eaters, they willingly switch to a seed/plant diet when necessary. You know, when in frigid Rome do as the other frigid Romans do.

The previously described scene repeated itself on the following day – without the House finches or the Carolina Wren – and ceased altogether once the seed was gone. So, after all this gloating about “my” feeder birds, we are left with the initial question. How do they find remote food sources? I suspect that these critters go by visual clues supplemented by continual curiosity. Some randomly seek while others watch other birds seeking. I believe that the chickadees found the place first, based on their habit of constant exploration and chance discovery. The activity of these birds attracted the rest of the feathered flock like a blue light special at K-Mart. The secret was out – as was my stock of seed.  I could go out and get some more but…

The wonderful thing about nature, and life in general, is that there is always a “was”, an “is”, and a “will be” at any given moment. A mid-winter walk is a great time to confirm this. At the time- my “is” consisted of a walk along a bitter cold marsh. The watery landscape was locked in the grip of a thick pavement of black ice, the nearby woodlot was silent, and the place was devoid of active life. All sensible creatures were tucked away and under cover. A light wind provided a constant reminder to this non-sensible creature that it is wind chill, and not the actual temperature, that rules the tip of my frozen nose.

The absence of evident life, however, is not evidence of absence. No, I didn’t make that up, but it certainly fits. There were plenty of life signs in the form of coyote & raccoon tracks. The raccoon apparently enjoying a frisky night out in the cold air as he tramped along the boardwalk and the coyote engaging in a territorial patrol along the cat-tail edge of the ice (perhaps looking for raccoons). A mink also passed by the previous evening – half tunneling/half bounding through the drifted snow. You could say that these tracks are evidence of what was.

I, still firmly in the world of “is”, came upon a different kind of “was” in the form of a few Long-billed Marsh Wren nests (see below and here). These well concealed clusters of plant fiber are extremely well camouflaged during the summer, but in the dead of winter these structures almost stand out. I say almost because they still share the dead brown hues of their cat-tail surroundings and are only a few feet above the ice (former water) level. If I hadn’t previously known of their existence I doubt I would have found them on this day. The wrens were very active in this part of the marsh and the antics of a particularly animated male called them to my attention way back in July. Now, abandoned and deteriorating, the nests stand as testaments to “what was.”

These nests are oval or lozenge shaped with a side entrance hole. This entrance doesn’t show up well in the photo because the shape was somewhat compressed, but it is there. Some of the literature claims that these holes usually face west or south but I couldn’t tell you what the reality was in this case. I was too cold to care, I guess.  They are made up of tightly woven cat-tail leaves integrated within a half dozen supporting cat-tail stems. One of the unique features of Marsh Wren nests is that you rarely find just one. There are usually several – up to a dozen – located in a relatively small area. This is why I refer to them in the plural.

During the breeding season, the male birds go on a building blitz in the hopes that a female will take a liking to at least one of them. Once she chooses her favorite, the pair puts on the finishing touches (consisting of a fine layer of soft cat-tail down lining the interior) and commences the business of wrenlet raising. Lucky males are sometimes able to attract an additional female to take up residence in one of the other nests. The whole nest complex forms a love commune of sorts. This particular commune was a small one consisting of only two nests – both of which look like they had been occupied. Once the season was over the real nest (s), and the so-called dummy nests, were abandoned to the elements and to the curious eye of a passing naturalist.

Further down the trail, in the woodlot, a cluster of Eastern Tent Caterpillar eggs stood as an example of something that “will be” (see above and here).   This egg mass, laid back in mid-summer, represents the efforts of a single female Tent caterpillar Moth who glued about 200 circular white eggs around a pencil sized Black Cherry twig. They were laid long before the cold season but were prepared in such a way as to withstand all but the harshest of winters. To insure that her clutch will survive the winter, she covered them with bubbly coating of natural shellac called Spumaline. Now, here is where things stray from the expected.

Soon after they were laid in the summer, the young caterpillars developed into fully formed larvae – taking about three weeks to become complete.  Instead of hatching, however, they remained within their egg shells and entered into a state of hibernation (diapause) within their vanished nursery. A high dosage of Glycerol in their body will allow them to super-cool without freezing as the “r” months progress. Oddly enough, the varnish covering the egg cluster actually attracts moisture rather than repels it. This prevents the eggs from drying out. The bubbly formation of the spumaline structure also acts like a solar heater and traps radiant energy. Consequently, these egg masses are maintained at temperatures slightly warmer than the surrounding air. Now, tell me that’s not incredible (don’t call, just write your response on a crisp $5 bill).

Inside this gray shiny mass are hundreds of moist, warmish little life forms. Like long distance space travelers they are kept in suspended animation until their capsules arrive at the other side of the year. Then they will eventually exit and begin to feed on the first fresh leaflets of the new year. For now, they represent the spring that “will be.”

Chances are pretty good that if you spot a solitary bird perched high on a telephone wire it will be a kestrel. You’ll be able to identify it even before you get a good look. The odds for early I.D. are improved if that wire is along a country road and almost guaranteed if they are situated in a weedy right of way. Oh, there are plenty of high wire birds out there during the winter. Mourning Doves, Starlings, and even overwintering bluebirds all will sit upon the highwire, but the key to this discussion is the word “solitary.” These other guys tend to flock together as birds of a feather. Kestrels are loners during the wintertime.

Kestrels make so much use of telephone lines as hunting perches that it is fair to say that these two entities are inseparable. They are rarely seen without them (although it doesn’t work the other way around – there are plenty of telephone poles without falcons attached to them). Although I can’t verify this, I’m fairly sure that this relationship stands true throughout the bird’s extensive range. I came upon this high wire kestrel while on the way to Moscow, for instance. O.K., it was on the way to Moscow, Michigan, but my point is still valid.

These birds can be found all the way from Alaska and northern Canada to the very southern tip of Chile. From the land where they are called Crecerelle d’Ameriques  to the southern hemisphere where they are called Cernicalo Americanos, American Kestrals are creatures of lofty vision. I am admittedly ignorant of the number of telephone wires in Chile and the Northwest Territories, so I’d better qualify my remarks by saying this thought only applies in areas “where telephone lines are present.” Perhaps Llamas would do as substitute perches in South America.

From a distance, removing the presence of the wire perch for a moment, the familiar outline of these robin-sized falcons is diagnostic enough (see above). They sit like tiny hunchbacks as they steadily scan the ground below for mice. Creatures of nervous habit, kestrels frequently bob their tails up and down when on the hunting perch. They betray their inner energy by tail bobbing in the fashion of a stalking cat twitching only the end of its tail. I counted the tail bobs of a wire-perched bird the other day and found that the individual flicked his tail no fewer than 72 times per minute. That’s more than once per second. This bird was aware of my presence and was likely showing a little more anxiety than usual. I do tend to elicit that same reaction in people as well.

Up close, the birds present a dazzle of color to add to their familiar profile. Male birds, like the one pictured here, have rich blue-gray wing coverts and rufous tails.  The females are heavily barred all over, even on their tails, and lack the blue-gray portions. All individuals have striking black facial marks – called mustaches on the males and well…, the same thing on females (I have seen old Italian women with mustaches, so there is some precedent for this). You know, now that I think of it, I probably make people nervous because I say things like I just stated. But, this isn’t about me, is it. It’s about Kestrels, so let’s get back to the subject at hand.

During the winter months these colorful falcons concentrate on meadow voles (mice), shrews and a few small birds as target prey. Of these, however, the voles are at the center of the target. There is no better vole habitat on earth than the grassy areas found along those Kestrel infested power line right-of-ways. Kestrels are very good at nabbing voles. They drop down onto their selected prey, clutch it in their powerful little talons and return to the power line for a power lunch. This is not the only hunting method employed by the kestrel. They are expert hang gliders as well, but we’ll leave topic for another time.

Whether by dropping down from a telephone line or a stationary aerial station, the birds descend upon the mice from above. You’d think that meadow voles would catch onto this scheme, but they don’t. They are content with the fact that Kestrels, like all predatory birds, miss a great majority of the time. I’m not sure why I found it funny, but I found this quote from an Ohio Journal of Science article published in 1982. The piece was talking about how meadow mice don’t look up that much. I quote: “Microtus (meadow voles) are usually under protective cover and don’t see aerial predators, and thus have not developed precise aerial predator detection capabilities.”  These are sweet words of reality for a wire perched Kestrel.

I realize that I frequently bring dead things to your attention quite a bit. Road-kills, hawk-kills, and owl-kills are potentially educational and I feel justified bringing them to your attention based upon the “it’s a shame to waste a dead thing” rule. Raccoons are not subject to this dictum, because they are worth wasting, but all other once-living things are game (or “gamey” as the case may be). At any rate, I try not to overdo it. It is a concerted effort on my part to pepper accounts of living and dead things equally through this blog. I do this also as part of an on-going effort to bring you in-focus pictures. You see, another little appreciated aspect of dead animals is that they tend not to move and are relatively easy to photograph.  They stay in focus.

A perfect case to illustrate the above point happened only yesterday. I almost hit a Red Fox as he dashed in front of me on LaSalle Road. The creature was going like a bat out of hell with his ears pinned behind his head. A large black dog was hot on his tail as the creature dashed across the yard to my right and flew over the width of the road in about .05 seconds. The dog broke off his chase at the roadside – having successfully cleared his master’s domain of vermin. The fox never looked back and melted into the scrub on the other side after a few more gallops.

I stopped to reach for my camera but the event was over so quickly that I failed to get a shot off. If I had, the whole scene would have been a blur anyway– a streaking red-brown blur taken through a dirty windshield. The black dog was beaming with excitement and would have gladly posed for a portrait (no doubt requesting it to be entitled “Blackie – Slayer of Foxes.”) But, I didn’t want a dog shot. If I had hit the fox with my car, on the other hand, things would have been very different. The ensuing photos would have clearly shown Renard’s beautiful orange fur, black feet, and cat-like eyes and I could have waxed poetic on these features.

I am doubly glad at having witnessed the event without hitting the fox, but this means that I have nothing more to say about this matter except: “the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.” I am, instead, stuck with the subject of discussing dead and near-dead tadpoles. I’ve been holding back on this one but feel it’s time.

Earlier in the season a deadly series of weather events combined forces to exact a heavy toll on some over-wintering bullfrog tadpoles. A west wind emptied most of the water out of our local Lake Erie marshes just as the temperatures plummeted. The water froze quickly into a solid block and locked dozens of tadpoles and young fish into a death grip (see here). Many of the tadpoles appear to have been literally frozen in motion – their dead bodies caught in “life like” poses (see above and here). The dead fish, consisting of a large-mouth bass and a few sunfish, looked like glass-eyed frozen fish but they exhibited some nice coloring (see below). My photos in this case are in focus although they will not appear so because the subjects were encased in ice.

My first reaction was that the pollywog kill was complete. It appeared that these unfortunate fellows had paid the price in the monopoly game called life. Under the ice, however, you could still see the slow-moving forms of living tadpoles just beneath the surface. There were individuals still hanging on.

Over the course of the next few weeks, the ice thawed a bit. Meltwater and rising water created a new layer over the older ice cover. The remaining tadpoles were entering into this inter-ice zone from access holes through the older ice (see below). Their movements were highly restricted by the honeycombed environment of ice tunnels and labyrinths and many were getting trapped. Only those that kept moving maintained some kind of an open space around them.

Bullfrogs always take at least one, and sometimes two years or more to complete their metamorphosis. This means over-wintering both as a tadpole and an adult. Most of the adult frogs stay put. They burrow into the bottom mud and hibernate. Thanks to elevated levels of glucose-based anti-freeze in their bodies, both adult and tadpole are immune to low temperatures. This immunity doesn’t extend down to the freezing level. Unlike some northern frogs, they are apparently freeze intolerant. Bullfrog sickles, in other words, will not come to life upon thawing.

The tadpoles maintain an active winter existence as long as there is liquid water available. They may seek out deeper water in the summertime but invariably choose to inhabit shallow areas in the winter. This is probably due to the available sunlight and algae growth found in the shallows. Ice bound water also tends to become low in dissolved oxygen so it is doubly wise to seek open watery edges. Unfortunately, the tactic is a risky one as we can see by this year’s problems.

I’m fairly sure that most of the later ice-trapped tadpoles will survive. They will wiggle their way around until re-gaining access to the lower depths. Like the swift brown fox earlier, enough will survive into the spring in order to carry on their way of life. Those that fail in this endeavor will stay trapped in eternal youth – perfectly focused at one stage of their life.

I took another set of fox squirrel pictures last week because there wasn’t anything else to shoot. It was a beautiful bright winter day with nothing moving about. I came upon this plump creature feasting upon clumps of rich red Highbush Cranberry berries. It appeared as if he was enjoying every luscious bite although he wasn’t after the fruit itself.  The blood red berry juice was dribbling down his paws as he plucked the seeds from each fruit in the cluster – discarding the rest. Below the cranberry bush the snow was covered with spattered red patches. It looked like the aftermath of some horrendous crime.

Apart from the fact that it was a bit unusual to see a squirrel eating this vomitous tasting fruit, there was nothing unusual about this scene. It wasn’t a murder scene, it was only a sloppy feeding scene. The whole thing made for a cute shot, I’ll grant you, but I’m not sure the world needs another cute feeding squirrel picture. Squirrels are always eating and they are very often “cute” while doing it.  So, you ask, why did I bother publishing this one? Frankly, the whole scene reminded me of something I recently read in the paper.

I was looking over the Sunday edition of the outdoor page from the Detroit News. Granted, the paper was an older edition– Nov. 22, 1931 to be exact – so none of the news was topical.  A story headline tucked into the center of the far left column caught my eye. “Fox Squirrel Kills Dog,” the large type declared. The sub-title explained “Farmer finds both animals dead: signs point to struggle.”  Now, how could I ignore such a story?

There was plenty on the page to compete with the squirrel article. It was located just above a fascinating piece about Beaver ranching (dam that was good) and a few columns over from another article titled “A Big Mouth but Valueless.”  This last piece wasn’t about politicians, by the way, it was referring to Baleen Whales. Let’s see, there was another one about “How to Bag Lions in the Kalahari” which provided an exact set of instructions reading as follows: “First sift sand through a large sieve, when only the lions will remain. There you place them in a bag carried for that purpose.” No, you don’t read stuff like that in the modern papers.

About the only other article that challenged the squirrel piece was a brief account of a battle between a rattlesnake and a prairie dog on the far right side. Since both of those combatants lived, the ending wasn’t all that exciting. The squirrel and the dog apparently battled to the death. That will trump beaver herding and mad Prairie dogs any day. It reads as follows:

“Portland, Ore. Nov. 21. Lady, a rat terrier that had been a most efficient exterminator of rats on a 70 acre farm near here, made a serious mistake when she opened battle on a very large fox squirrel. When she failed to return from her most recent ramble about the farm her owner went to look for her and found the two, squirrel and dog, lying together in the midst of a blood-soaked battlefield. It is believed that Lady received the wound in her neck that apparently caused her death early in the battle, but fought on only to drop dead herself shortly after killing the squirrel.”

Wow, eh? You can see why my squirrel picture, eating what looked like a fresh piece of bloody dog meat (take another look here and here), reminded me of this dramatic incident. There were a few things about the story that needed some verification, however. Take the size differential between the squirrel and dog, for instance. Fox Squirrels average between 1 – 2 pounds in weight and middle sized rat terriers tend to be in the 6-8 pound range. That terrier should have easily handled that squirrel.  They are ferocious little dogs. There is a record of a single rat terrier once killing 2,501 rats within a seven hour period. One squirrel should have only taken a few seconds to handle.

To be honest, however, the piece never actually mentioned the exact type of rat terrier or the exact meaning of “very large” when referencing the squirrel. Given the fact that so-called Toy Rat Terriers can weigh as little as 4 pounds and that the squirrel might have ingested steroids at some point, the differential is potentially reduced. Also, do you remember the man-killing rabbit in Monty Python’s “Search for the Holy Grail” movie? I’m sure that bunny wasn’t much more than a few pounds in weight. That bunny went for the throat just like the Fox Squirrel in this story, so the plausibility factor is improved for the Oregon story.

The only final hurdle, and it was a big one, was placing a Fox Squirrel in Portland Oregon. This species is not naturally found west of the Great Plains. I thought that perhaps the squirrel in the story was simply misidentified, but found that scenario unlikely. There are four native Oregonian squirrels, but all are pipsqueaks when compared to a healthy steroid ridden Fox Squirrel. I don’t think that even a furious western flying squirrel could kill a terrier even if the dog was unconscious!  No, this fact appeared to present a fault line threatening to break open the whole storyline. But, not to worry.

I found out that Fox Squirrels were imported to various locations along the west coast many years ago. One of the locations where these relocated animals survived is, you guessed it, the Portland, Oregon area! The story was probably true. It was a clear case of a mad immigrant squirrel taking on a native rodent killer. Once again I can believe everything I read in the paper (although I still have trouble with the lion catching thing).

The title of this entry pretty much explains my initial reaction upon seeing an immature Cooper’s Hawk standing in the middle of the road. The bird stoically stood her “ground” as I approached. This was no silent approach on my part, mind you, I was in my big gray (actually gray-brown due to the thick layer of winter dirt) Chevy Blazer. The unusual sight slowed me down to a crawl as I scrambled to grab my camera. I needn’t have been so cautious because the creature stayed in place long after I’d positioned myself to lean out the window and snap away. In fact, she stayed put for a good long minute until another car came along from the opposite direction. Even then, in the face of a big red-brown F-250 pickup, she reluctantly flew up into the surrounding brush at the last minute.

This same bird was in the same place when I passed by the same spot ½ hour later! I slammed on my brakes the second time and slid for ten feet. The bird watched me complete this graceful maneuver before taking a leisurely flight to a nearby limb.  Here she perched and glared (see below) until the gray brown vehicle moved on.  Later in the day, several other folks commented that they too had seen this crazy thing in the road.  At the time, I could not answer the “why” questions that followed.

Cooper’s Hawks are not rare, so my attention in this matter can’t be categorized into the “rare-sighting” column. In mid-winter these birds are a very common sight due to the fact that they seek out neighborhood bird feeders to feed on the patrons. They are “bird hawks”; specialized in the art of taking small-medium sized birds. Most feeder owners are very familiar with this species and their reactions run the gamut from hate to acceptance to sheer excitement.  Love ‘em or hate ‘em, however, they are used to ‘em.

These predators are masters of patience who spend a lot of time doing absolutely nothing. More often than not they adopt a bolt upright pose and perch in plain sight. They will stay in position for so long that the feeder birds, endowed with frightfully short term attention spans, eventually return to their banquet. Soon one of them becomes the main course when the hawk launches into a swift attack upon the feeder.  Another tactic employed by these slender hawks is to approach a potential target area by flying in low to the ground using some sort of obstacle, such as a house, as cover and then lunging over the top and down onto their startled quarry. Somehow Mourning Doves are always the last to react to such an attack (“What the heck…hey, where is everyone go..”) and  so become the entree.

In the above circumstances, the hunter appears only as a deadly blur in the last few seconds of the attack. At first I believed that my road hawk had just nabbed a dove and was in the process of plucking it. There was no prey in view either under or near, however. My bird was not in blurry hunting mode and so was clear in every detail. In fact, based on the swollen appearance of her crop, it was obvious that she had recently eaten.  The bulge had a faint dove look to it.

At the very least this provided a good opportunity to see the identifying details of an immature Cooper’s Hawk. The size and proportion of the J-walker marked her as a female. Sharp-shinned hawks, even the larger females, are smaller and more delicate in appearance than the female Coopers. Coops possess thick powerful feet and long tails which are rounded at the tip (Sharpies have slender legs and squared tail tips). Mature Coopers have ruby red eyes and stern expressions accentuated by a dark cap, while the immatures have piercing yellow eyes. Mature birds have a slatey gray back (similar to a dirty gray brown Chevy, as a matter of fact) and a reddish brown breast with horizontal streaking. Immatures have a white breast marked with brown vertically oriented streaks.

So, alright, the question remains as to why this Chicken Hawk was in the road?  Apart from the singular possibility that it was a young stupid fowl with a death wish there must have been something drawing there. There was also the possibility that I was witnessing a living, soon to be dead, punch line – you know the one about the chicken crossing the road to get to the other side. Encumbered by the need to elicit humor, my correct answer took longer than it should have to come to the surface.

You’ll note that every shot I took had a nice mirror reflection in it (see images here and above) because the bird was always standing in a pool of shallow melt water. She was attempting to take a bath in the only liquid water available at the time. The continual traffic was interrupting her cleansing efforts.

Hawks don’t need much water for bathing. They seem to prefer shallow puddles, under 1 ½ inches deep, in which to perform the duty. These hawks are especially prone to bathing in backyard bird baths. If you don’t believe me, just Google the words “Cooper’s Hawk, Bathing” and you’ll be treated to dozens of on-line videos showing this very thing.

Oddly enough every one of these bathing beauty videos appears to depict an immature bird, which begs another question that shall remain un-answered for now. There were no videos of any mature birds in the bathing process (perhaps someone out there might investigate this).  Also, as far as I could tell, no one has a video of a road bathing bird either, but then again, neither do I.

I yelled “Ah Ha!” rather loudly upon discovering that I had succeeded in my mission. For the past several months, an opossum was conducting nocturnal forays into our eagle enclosure to feast on scraps. He was just small enough to squeeze through the slats and was coming and going with apparent impunity. In fact, the sheer abundance of track evidence suggested a bit of arrogance on the part of the thieving marsupial. “Catch me if you can” was the implied challenge. I brought this subject up in a recent “Naturespeak” and I ended that piece by saying that this ‘possum would soon suffer eviction. Fortunately I was eventually able to secure a live trap (see here) and make good on my promise.

It was too easy, really. Baited with a nice fresh fish fillet, the trap was set out in the late afternoon of one day and it contained the guilty party upon the dawning of the next (see here). My “ah ha” moment resulted from a visceral sense of victory of one man over a mammal with a brain the size of a hazelnut. You take victories as they come. In the back of my mind I was hoping for a long-lasting duel in which the trapper and the trapped pitted their wits against each other over an extended period of time. You know, like those legendary tales of western trappers trying to nab a wily sheep-killing wolf named “Old Snag” that had eluded capture for a decade. A trapper named “Slim” arrives and gets the job done, but only after losing his trusty beagle “Teddie” in the final struggle.  No, I simply set the trap and I got the critter and that was about it. The fish died, but he was dead already.

Unlike “Slim”, I was using a live trap. The idea was to capture the beast and kick him out of town. Huddled inside the confines of the trap, the opossum looked very repentant. These marsupials always look guilty, even when they are innocent of ill deeds, but this one looked especially so. Just like his track evidence had indicated, he was a small guilty party. ‘Possums can get to be house cat size, which means anywhere from 4 – 14 pounds, but my captive was only 2 lbs, if that. He avoided all eye contact and made no effort to protest his capture. And, surprisingly, did not play ‘possum even when jumbled around.

There are a lot of fallacies surrounding opossums, especially relating to their mating techniques, but the one basic truth revolves around their famous ability to feign death. They can indeed lapse into a catatonic state at times of high stress. At such times they will curl up their lips and bare their teeth, salivate heavily, and enter into a limp non-responsive state (Oddly enough, this mysterious nervous collapse doesn’t result in any metabolic change or decrease of heart rate). I’ve only seen this act once and found it to be quite convincing. It may last for a few minutes or a few hours. The problem is that the poor critters have no control over this reaction. They do not, and cannot, consciously slip into unconsciousness, it just happens.

Feigning death may work against dogs and red foxes, but not against Red Ford F-150 pickups. Fortunately, ‘possums have a litany of conscious fear/defense reactions ranging from wide mouthed hissing (they have 50 teeth and a very large mouth), to – and I quote from a source – “belching, urinating, rolling over, and becoming stiff.”

I took my opossum for a ride, briefly entertaining the thought of releasing him in the middle of I-75. Instead, I took him to a nice wild place far from caged eagles. I took him to a place where free-flying eagles eat small mammals. Before releasing him I shook up the container a bit to see if I could elicit one of the above named responses, but the thing remained silent, wide-eyed, and stoic. No amount of verbal abuse could get him to react in any other way than to sit there – frozen in position – with a silly grin on his face. In fact, even when the door was propped open he refused to budge or flee. I actually had to tip the trap on end in order to deposit him on freedom’s ground. Even when fully liberated, however, he was less than able to take advantage of the situation. He stood there like, as Ernie Harwell used to say, “like the house by the side of the road…” (see here).

Instead of playing ‘possum he played statue with me.  He would launch into a slow retreat only when I moved and then freeze into a pose when I stopped moving. I moved, he moved. I stopped, he stopped. At one point he stopped in mid step with his fore-leg in a raised position and he slowly, oh so slowly, let it drop down to complete the step. You can watch a short bit of this game on this video sequence Eventually the creature managed some form of escape when he ducked into some thick brush and disappeared from view.

I would like to add this “Statue of Liberty” act to the list of opossumisms. I must say it sure beats all those other conscience defense tactics. Oh, by the way, if he shows up in the eagle enclosure again, I can guarantee that he will achieve a very realistic death pose.