The Black-capped Chickadee is a bird in constant motion. Even on the chilliest of winter mornings, when all other creatures are huddled into motionless balls of fur or feather, this little dynamo is on the move. A day without that high-toned chickadee chatter cutting through the frosty air is a rarity. As a nature chronicler, it is one bird you can count on to provide a living subject for your eye and camera when nothing else is out and about. They actually come to you rather than you to them. Unfortunately, this dynamism also makes them a hard subject to “catch” photographically. Just about the time your auto-focus keys in, the thing shifts position and flits away before the shutter is actually triggered.  You are left with some well focused twig pictures.

A few weeks ago, I was accosted by a gang of neighborhood chickadees while walking one of the trails at Kensington Metropark. The day was snowy and silent and , true to form, these were the only warm-blooded life-form around. This population is probably one of the most photographed populations in S.E. Michigan because they are accustomed to hand feeding by park visitors. Although it is against policy, and rightly so, it is obvious that folks still do this. The birds come out of nowhere and circle your head as you walk – chattering like street vendors. If you hold out your open hand they will land on it (expecting a feed). This is not natural.

Natural or not, I decided to attempt an impromptu and in-focus chickadee picture. I held out my hand and focused on my fingertips. Before I could properly react, however, one of the birds alighted, instantly perceived that I had nothing to give, then turned and flew off. I got a great picture of my gloved hand – every weave detail and textural intricacy of my glove was captured. The birds vanished once my ruse was detected and I was left to take pictures of the Tamarack trees. Trees don’t move much on a still cold day.

I finally captured a fully fluffed chickadee image a few days ago (see larger pictures here and here). The bird was engaged in picking at a sumac seed head. It landed, delivered a few blows at a seed, and moved on.  I happened to be there with my focus and managed to get two shots off. Well, I actually took three shots but there’s no need to show you the naked twig picture.

In short, the chickadee is not an easy bird to freeze into a picture image. But, my point here is not a photographic one. The thing I wish to drive home is that the Chickadee is a hard bird to freeze – period. These tiny birds are masters of thermogenesis: staying warm.

The most obvious Chickidian warmth tactic is apparent in these pictures. You’ll note that the bird is puffed out like a gray pom-pom. The dead air space created by the raised feathers traps and conserves precious body heat. Nearly all birds do this. What is not obvious is that the bird is producing that heat by being active – something called “activity thermogenesis.” This is why they never sit still.

There are two ways to make heat, one is through muscle shivering and the other is by movement and activity. Chickadees carry around very little fat, so can’t get much “burn” out of shivering. Instead they resort to activity thermogenesis which means they generate heat by continually moving. This method requires a lot of food, and chickadees spend over half of their waking hours looking for it, but it also saves energy for those long frigid nights.

You could say that a chickadee at rest during the day will end up staying at rest – forever. They’d freeze into an easily photographed still life! A chickadee at rest during the night is a different story, however. When these birds stop for the evening they really stop. Remarkably, they are able to enter into a controlled state of hypothermia and are able to let their body temperatures drop well below the “safe” level. Every once and a while they engage in short bursts of shivering to keep up appearances until the morning sun prompts them back into action.

So, it appears that Chickadees do make themselves available for portrait shooting; it’s just that their particular sitting period is during the dark of a winter night.

There’s nothing dishonest about Fox Squirrels. They don’t bother trying to be suave or sophisticated, because they are not. They are nimble, yes. Adaptable, you bet. Free from anxiety, no. At times it seems that everything on the planet is out to smite them. Predators, disease, Hondas, hunters, accidents, weather, and at least 34 other things are listed as potential sources of death in the squirrel survival book. Unfortunately, they can’t read. So, instead of restricting their avoidance tactics to the listed “dangerous things,” they simply distrust everything -thus the high anxiety level.

The only thing which overrides this general distrust is the desire to eat and the drive to make little squirrels. In these categories they are quite upfront. “Eat, live hardy, fear everything, and die before you need a walker” could well be the Fox Squirrel motto. It’s a long motto to be sure. Personally, I believe the Klingon mantra “this is a good day to die” would be easier to say when a car is bearing down upon you.  Let’s not get the wrong idea about squirrels, however. Even though they are resigned to death, they do not embrace it until it embraces them. They employ all their nimble and adaptable powers to avoid it. If they end up looking awkward while skirting the issue of squirrelius mortemus , so what. It’s better to be silly than be supper (hey, that could be another motto).

I offer up two squirrel related incidences which, if they don’t prove my point, at least go a long way toward hinting at it.  They involve two situations in which the squirrel was being, well, a squirrel. Both are unremarkable, but telling.

First up is a Fox Squirrel track pattern in the snow which exhibits a moment of great anxiety concerning a stick. This track (see below) was laid onto a layer of snow where a neighborhood squirrel regularly crosses over a frozen canal. Several sticks were poking up through the ice and one of them stood about 6 inches over the surface – its blackness standing in stark contrast to the surrounding whiteness. Although it appears that this particular squirrel passes this stick multiple times over the course of a given week, the thing suddenly became ominous one day.  The track pattern says it all.

Take a good look at this picture and you’ll see that the squirrel approached the danger stick from the right. Starting off with the typical lopping gait, the nervous creature stopped about four feet away and proceeded at a slow walk toward the mystery object. The walking pattern is similar to that made by opossums and raccoons where the front and hind foot marks are paired. You can imagine the animal advancing step by step with its head rocking back and forth – like those apes approaching the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

The funniest thing about this pattern is where our squirrel resorts to a series of bottom shuffles in order to cover the last 12 inches before making contact.  At the end of this genuflection walk, the squirrel probably touched the “monolith,” mentally noted that it was just a stick, then galloped off to find another way to die. What was this squirrel thinking? Who knows? If that stick had turned out to be a venomous snake then…better silly than supper.

Last week we experienced the first big snow of the season and this provided an opportunity for my second squirrel observation. The storm hit about mid-day. Most critters seek shelter in such a situation and wait until it passes. I spied a chunky Fox Squirrel defying the elements as he engaged in maple seed harvesting (see photo below and here) while the storm was hitting at full intensity. Her tree, a Norway maple, is normally reserved as a winter food source by the regional squirrels. The seeds have dangled in position since late summer, but for some reason this Fox Squirrel decided that this storm signaled the start of the harvest season.

In this case, I am not accusing the squirrel of silliness. In hindsight, I believe she knew that the storm would end up laying down a heavy layer of snow. Perhaps she sensed that food would be harder to get in the near future and was exhibiting, in fact, some sort of weather prognostication. I am also marveling at her plucky exhibit of dexterity. There are very few creatures that can eat while hanging upside down by the smallest of toe-holds. Chickadees do it all the time, but they only weight a few ounces. Fox Squirrels, on the other hand, weight around the 1.5 pound range. This one was cheating death by facing it head on.

To this squirrel, and to all squirrels, I tip my hat to your pure squirreliness.

Some animal/plant names evoke word associations that are joined at the hip.  For instance, it is near impossible to say “mammoth” without automatically saying “woolly mammoth” or “gull” without forging the word “sea” onto it. In truth, not all mammoths were of the woolly type and there are no birds actually called seagulls. It’s an easy verbal habit to slip into and a hard one to break. This laxity is not criminal, but it does tend to deny the wonderful concept of diversity. There have always been multiple models, or species, of every life form on earth. This concept is what makes life interesting.

For instance, in our neck of the Ice Age world, Jefferson Mammoths (not to be confused with Jefferson Airplanes) ruled the plains. These elephantine beasts were probably not all that hairy. Wooly Mammoths were the hairy ones. They were the ones who roamed the northern tundra, leaving their fuzzy frozen carcasses for us to examine. There are dozens of gull species (herring, ring-billed, ivory, etc.) and not one of them is technically a seagull. If you consider the actuality that seagulls are gulls living near the sea, then these same birds could also be called lakegulls, pondgulls, McDonaldgulls, and bagels depending on where they were at any given time. Come to think of it, a flying gull could become all of the above over the course of a single flight. That same gull, however, would remain a Herring Gull no matter how far it flew or what landscape feature it happened to go near. Hopefully you see my point – there’s no use beating a long dead elephant here.

I bring this topic up because I once was guilty of automatically labeling all sumacs as Staghorn Sumacs. Now that I have confessed to this misdeed, I must do penance and explain that there are actually dozens of sumac species, but only two of them are common in southern Michigan. These are the pair which I had previously lumped into one. One of them is a Staghorn and the other is not. The other species is called the Smooth Sumac.

Fortunately, sumacs are easily identified in the wintertime. These spindly medium sized shrubs grow in small clusters along woodlot edges or in scrub lots. The naked winter stems exhibit distinctive red berry clusters that look like fuzzy candelabras.  Beyond the commonalities between them, the key to separating the Staghorn and Smooth type is similar to telling the difference between the Jefferson Mammoth and the Wooly Mammoth – it’s in the fur. Staghorns have fuzzy stems and berry clusters and Smooths, true to their name, have smooth stems and berries.

Staghorn Sumac stems look almost mammalian in their density of light brown “hairs” (see above ). This feature, because it resembles a stag – or deer antler- in velvet, is responsible for the common name. Of course, this growth is not really fur but the resemblance is remarkable. Note also that the berry clusters are fuzzy as well (see beginning photo and here). So, Staghorns are the Woolly Mammoths of the plant world.

Smooth Sumac stems are relatively hairless (see above) and represent, in my forced effort at comparison, the Jefferson Mammoths. Their berry clusters are also red, but hairless (see below).

These two species separate themselves in other ways. Habitatwise, Smooth Sumacs prefer dry upland soils and the Staghorns seek wetter soils. In a continental view, the Smooth Sumac is found all over the United States. One reference even states that it is the only American shrub native to all the 48 contiguous states. The Staghorn, on the other hand, restricts itself to the N.E. states.

Now that I’ve taken great pains to separate these two plants, I must conclude by saying that our ancestors made no such effort. Native Americans have long combined the leaves and bark of this shrub with tobacco for smoking purposes. Natives and settlers alike have used the tannin rich components as a dye material for cloth. Depending on what part is used, a black, red, or tan color can be produced. The hollow stems were also used as maple syrup spiles. There was no differentiation as to species.

Knowing this, you can now put this information in your pipe and smoke it, put it in your pants and wear it, or put it in your mind and remember it.

This has not been a snowy winter so far in S.E. Michigan.  Although it has been cold, little of the white stuff has covered the ground in my neighborhood here in the extreme S.E. portion of the state. The rest of the peninsula has seen plenty and I’m more than a bit jealous. I happen to like snow. No, I don’t love shoveling it or driving on it, but the stuff more than makes up for these negatives by creating some of the prettiest landscapes you’ll ever see.  Snow can make a junk car look poetic or turn a windblown roadside ditch into a sculpture gallery. As a naturalist, I also appreciate it as a track medium. A fresh layer of snow, like a new sheet of paper, is a clean palette ripe for natural story-telling.

The last dusting revealed the wanderings of a coyote through the pre-dawn landscape along the Erie shore (see above). These wild dogs have expanded into nearly every human and wild neighborhood in the country. They have made it a habit to stay out of sight, however, so you rarely see them in the light of day. Especially in the east, they tend to restrict their activities to the dusk and dawn hours when human folk aren’t as likely to shoot them – or at least hit them when they do.

The alert naturalist will note their fresh tracks along nearly every backwoods or field trail after a snowfall. These wild dogs are on the move throughout the year, but only a good snow cover can record the true extent of these wanderings. Typically, an individual animal maintains a regular route which covers their sizable home range – an area that can extend 30 square miles or more (Coyotes living in prime habitat can afford to maintain a much smaller home range). They are looking for food such as rabbits, carrion, and mice, and stopping to mark the borders by scent marking. Like mall security guards, they walk the beat and check the perimeter doors and food vendors. Unlike Mall cops, they fit neatly into their uniforms and can run for great distances.

If you chose to follow one of these coyote tracks, be prepared to go a long way. Make sure you are tracking the right beast before attempting this. The tracks are very dog-like but can be distinguished from our familiar house mates by their proportions and pattern. Dog tracks tend to be round in outline whereas the coyote footprint tends to be oval in outline. Red Fox tracks are also similar but they show little in the way of a heel or toe pad and are generally much smaller. An individual coyote track is usually in the 2 ¼ in. – 2 ½ in. range. I say “usually” because these animals vary in size and large individuals can top the scales at 40 pounds or more. A bigger critter will leave a bigger track. Regardless the actual size, the front foot impression is always larger than the hind foot mark. The track -shown below- measures about 2 ½ in. from the back of the heel pad to the tip of the center toe pad. I assume it’s a front foot mark. Coyotes habitually use and drop Papermate pens along their routes, so this was another valuable identity clue (a 6 inch pen also helps to provide a scale for the photo).

When on the move, a coyote will lay down tracks in a straight line. Dogs tend to veer all over the place and cluster around human foot prints or in back yards! For the most part, you will encounter mile after mile of determination when trailing a coyote. They rarely veer from their course unless alerted to a point of interest.

The only path deviation I encountered during my recent attempt at coyote tracking was a situation (see below) where the animal took a right turn to look at a disturbance on the ice. Apparently a clump of snow from an overhead tree, or a snowball, made an impact mark on the virgin surface. The coyote turned, probably with nose to the surface, to investigate but quickly dismissed the mark as being unproductive. It didn’t even break stride as it turned back to its original direction.

Another individual, walking the same location as above, slipped a bit on a slick section of the ice (see here). A sideways smear clearly indicates the place where the short incidence of imbalance occurred. The open toed pattern of the other prints shows where the critter “dug in” in order to regain balance and dignity. I enjoy seeing animals slip because I do it so often – it makes them more human (did I actually say that?)

Unfortunately, during my short attempt at long-term tracking, amounting to less than ½ mile of ground and ice, I didn’t uncover any dramatic signs of predation or even locations where the coyote sprinkled down some scent marking urine. My reward was the opportunity to replicate a small part in the life of a coyote that I never met. I’m confident that someday our paths will cross again – and soon.

If I told you that Highbush Cranberry berries are “very mildly toxic “and may “cause vomiting or diarrhea if eaten in large amounts,” would you eat one?  Well, yes, of course you would. All the good things in life have the potential of inducing vomiting or diarrhea when eaten in large amounts.  I cite Twinkies and Corn Nuts as prime examples of this phenomenon. Almonds contain cyanide. If you ate an entire grain elevator full of almonds over a short period of time, you would die – not from cyanide poisoning, however, but from gluttony and embarrassment.  Moderation is the key here.

I bring this topic up, figuratively, in order to discuss the relative merits of Highbush Cranberry berries. These beautiful bright red fruit clusters become painfully obvious this time of year. They dangle from their bushy heights like luscious plump ambrosia clusters ripe for the picking. Each fresh snowfall places a cute little elfin cap on each ruby cluster. You are rightly tempted to try one of these berries and you are safe to do so. But, I warn you to consider a few things (other than diarrhea) before taking this step.

First of all, there are two kinds of Highbush Cranberry species out there.  They are nearly identical but one is “good” and the other is “bad.”  Secondly, Highbush Cranberries are not cranberries at all, they are members of the viburnum family that have absolutely no relationship to those low grown soggy red bog berries of Turkeytime fame. Finally, ask yourself the following question: “Why, if these things are supposed to be so good, are they still hanging on the bush? – they should have been eaten up months ago by hungry birds.”

Up until today, I was as ignorant of the first consideration as a deep fried twinkie is of common sense.  Though I had long known that these berries were once used as a cranberry substitute, I could not rectify this with my knowledge that the Highbush berries in my neighborhood smelled like a combination of wet dog smell and that funky cornflake-like locker room odor.  Needless to say, their taste matched their advertising.  I simply concluded that our early New England ancestors were desperate folk driven into madness by a constant diet of turkey. Well, I was wrong.

There are actually two species of so-called Highbush Cranberry. The American Highbush, or Cranberry Bush (Viburnum trilobum) and the European Highbush (Viburnum opulus). The native shrub produces good tasting berries suitable for making jams and wines etc. while the European one bears acidic and nasty tasting berries. This explains why the Pilgrims moved away from Europe. Unfortunately, the foreign species has spread throughout the northeast and is found overlapping the entire range of the native shrub. Apparently, I had never experienced a true American Highbush Cranberry – the one used as a cranberry substitute, that is.

The two species are virtually identical in appearance except that trilobum has leaves with shallower lobes than opulus.  Both are opposite-leaved multi-stemmed shrubs getting up to 15 feet high. Some scientists have suggested that the two are only varieties of each other. In the winter, when the leaves are gone, the only way to determine the difference is to try some of the fruit. If you vomit, then you have just tasted the European type. Simple.  Encouraged by this new fact, I went out and tried one of the local fruits. You can see the results below. It was an opulus.

You’ll notice as you spit the contents from your mouth, as I did, that the berries contain large flat seeds that take up the entire fruit.  The seeds are the truly bitter part (although I have noticed that some creatures eat the seeds and leave the fruit- see here). Should you come upon a genuine American Highbush in the future, be sure to remove the seeds before processing the fruit.  According to the literature, the fruits should be harvested soon after ripening when they are firm and red. Some references say that they should be picked when slightly under-ripe but after the first frost. In the case of the European Cranberry Bush, you are instructed to pick the fruit at any time, throw them out, and then go to the store and buy some real cranberry sauce.

As to the final point regarding palatability for wildlife, you can do a brief survey in your neighborhood and note that most of the Highbush berries will remain throughout the winter. In fact, if your bushes are heavily laden with winter fruit they are likely to be the “bad” kind. In opulus country, birds will eat them only as a last resort. Apparently the action of freezing and thawing concentrates the sugar content enough so that they become more palatable by season’s end.

Even with my new found wisdom in this regard, I prefer to leave the Highbush Cranberry to the birds and the Pilgrims. I’d rather get sick on Twinkies.

This is a small story with no end – at least not a satisfying one. It involves Luc, the captive bald eagle housed at the Lake Erie Marshlands Museum, his food, and a mystery guest. Luc is a good eater. Since this eagle is limited by his physical problems it is our job to make sure that he has enough food to meet his energy needs. This is especially important during the winter months.  Eagles are resilient winter birds. In the wild they perch in exposed locations, stand out on the open ice, and otherwise tough it out without the benefit of any shelter. Their thick coating of down acts as an insulating layer which retains body heat and buffers the effects of even the coldest of winds.

Wild eagles also have the ability to prime their engines by moving about over great distances. Luc gets in his calisthenics by engaging in short flights to and from his large perch – either to the ground and back or to his smaller perch and back.  He also shivers as a natural way to generate heat. All this requires energy. His diet, therefore, needs to be a hearty one -and it is. Depending on the day, he’ll get a heaping helping (about a pound) of fish, rabbits, or rats. Thanks to the generous donations of local hunters, he’s also had the recent opportunity to feast on venison and duck.

Not that we need to get into precise details here, but let’s just say that Luc leaves a lot of scraps after a meal. A rabbit is pretty well reduced down to a head, a gut pile, and a few unlucky feet. Everything but the head & backbone are consumed during a fish meal (the remains looking very much like those cartoon fish skeletons) while a rack ‘o venison ribs are picked clean to the bone. Rats are about the only eagle meal which produces no significant remains.

Sometime within the last month, however, we noticed that Luc appeared to be licking his plate (or his stump, as the case may be). There were very few pieces of any consequence left for us to pick up. I assumed he was eating more due to the colder weather and began to worry that maybe we weren’t keeping up with his appetite. The deer ribs remained in their picked state but they always ended up in an odd corner of the cage – tucked into the micro corner formed by the pond’s rock pile and the cage wall. Strangely, some of the few rabbit parts also found their way there. This complete consumption was very odd but the stashing thing was extra bizarre. Eagles don’t store food like squirrels – they eat them.

An old thought began to creep back into my head about this time. Early on, for several weeks after we received the bird as a matter of fact, none of us ever saw our eagle eat. He would not eat in front of people. Sure, the food would disappear by the next day, but there was always the nagging idea that some small mammalian creature was sneaking into the cage under the cover of darkness and making off with Luc’s food. Perhaps Luc was starving to death right in front of us as we kept piling mounds of food that he ultimately could never get a chance to eat!

After finally witnessing the eagle tear away at a freshly placed rabbit (a dead one, in case you are wondering) and noting the consistent meal remains, I finally felt comfortable that our eagle will grow fat and old under our care. Besides, the spacing between the enclosure slats was pretty small so it would have to be a pretty small invader. Then the weather turned cold and the previously reported events began to occur.

It took a few inches of snow cover to finally solve the first part of “the Case of the Moving Ribs.” In short, my earlier fears were real – a small mammalian invader was entering Luc’s cage at night and eating his food. That uninvited guest was an Opossum. His distinctive tracks pockmarked the snow around Luc’s feeding station (see track details above and below) and centered around a set of deer ribs pulled up to the tight inside corner by the pond rocks.

Opossum tracks are very diagnostic (see another view here). The front foot mark clearly shows a wide-spreading pattern of five toes. The impression of the hind foot is placed next to the front track and bears evidence of a thumb-like toe stuck out at a right angle from the foot pad. There was no doubt as to the identity of the maker of these marks.

The sneaky marsupial was entering the cage via the northwest corner where there is a slightly wider gap between the slats. A straight line of tracks led directly from the nearby marsh. Once inside, the beast was dragging the food scraps over to his dining corner (see here) and gnawing away in comfort before leaving by the same narrow door. Since opossums are nocturnal, they have nothing to fear from the likes of a diurnal bald eagle. Our invader was entering into the sleeping Cyclops’s lair and eating his sheep (Luc is blind in one eye).

It would be nice to report that we eventually nabbed the offending ‘possum and threw his lifeless carcass onto Luc’s feeding stump, but such is not the case – yet. This is the part where I must leave you with no true ending. The marsupial will have to go and the entry point will be sealed, but this deed will have to wait until I can secure a live trap and get the thing in hand.  I’m not in a terrible hurry.

Not all of my fears are realized in this scenario, for you see I believe the mammal is only picking at the remains and not eating all the bird’s food. Luc is getting his share and the lowly hair-beast is merely picking at crumbs. Perhaps over the Christmas holiday the opossum will overdo his gig and get fat. In that case he will render himself either too girthy to squeeze through the entrance point or, God forbid, too big to escape back to the marsh. In the latter case, the sunrise will prove fatal to our night thief as the enclosure guard awakes.

The primary name of the Peregrine Falcon stems from the old-fashioned word meaning  “wanderer.” They are a global species, distributed over every type of habitat and on every continent except Antarctica, so this name is certainly an appropriate one.  Back in “the day,” however, they were better known as Duck Hawks. It used to be that most predatory birds were  named after their prey -even if the name was inaccurate or misleading. Cooper’s Hawks were notoriously called Chicken Hawks, Osprey were known as Fish Hawks, and Kestrals were dubbed Sparrow Hawks. Ospreys are indeed fish specialists, but Coops only take chickens when convenient and Kestrals aren’t happy unless they nab a regular diet of meadow voles. Although Peregrines take a wide variety of bird prey, they really do earn their Duck Hawk appellation.

Peregrines are not hawks in the specific sense of the word. They are falcons complete with long tails, tapered wings, and “sideburns” but let’s not get too picky here. “Hawk” is often used as a generic term to cover a whole host of daytime birds of prey. The sight of a Peregrine falcon atop a freshly killed duck is as natural as a winter sunrise itself. Since the Detroit River mouth environs offers a bounteous wealth of waterfowl this area acts as a magnet for these large falcons (duck a la Detroit). I frequently encounter evidence of their predatory work after the fact, but was lucky enough to come upon the scene of a fresh duck  kill along the river shore. As a matter of fact, this kill site was so fresh that the killer was still present at the scene (see below).

I was not witness to the killing act, but can piece together the probable scenario that led up to the scene before me. Peregrine Falcons are specialists at picking their prey out of the sky, so it is likely that this kill was made after the duck flushed from the water. Ducks that stay tight on the water surface or dive underneath it can avoid capture. Once in the air, however, the falcon is allowed to swoop down from above and strike the prey with a blow delivered by the feet -literally knocking the wind, if not the immediate life, out of his quarry. No one is really sure how fast a stooping falcon can go, but educated estimates exceeding 150 mph have been ventured. These birds become, in other words, living missiles.

As in war, however,  missiles do not always hit their target. Studies on the predatory habits of falcons have shown that they miss far more often than they hit their intended targets. In Alberta, Peregrines only nabbed 25 ducks after 275 attempts and in British Columbia they were batting nine out of 43 (I guess that would be a .200 average). It’s not just a Canadian thing either, it’s everywhere. If ducks knew the odds they’d be a happier lot of fowl.

The business of eating which follows the capture is conducted with little waste of time. Larger birds, such as eagles, often rob Peregrines of their kill, so they must get their job done efficiently. Plucking is the first order of business. All the contour and down feathers are pulled out – leaving the prey’s wings, head, and feet intact – before feasting begins. They can eat large amounts, up to 1/4 of their weight,  at one sitting. When I first came upon my falcon he had already performed the pluck and was well into the stuff portion of the routine. A large pile of down had accumulated on the downwind grass and his crop was bulging like a softball (you can see the round area in his throat in this view). Frankly he looked rather guilty about the whole thing and he moved a few feet away from the meal as I neared (see here). After a few minutes he returned to work (see here – sorry for the erratic camera work, there was an earthquake at the time).

This individual was an immature bird with quite a bit of brown streaking on the breast. The large sideburn marks along with the clear yellow eye rings were clear indications of the species, but I could not make a definite call as to the sex of the bird. Females (called “falcons” by falconers) are larger than the males (called “tiercels” by those same folks). If I had to guess, I’d say this was a female but I guess I don’t really have to guess do I?

Returning to the kill site later in the day, I was able to find out exactly what kind of duck served as the main course for this falcon. It was a Ruddy Duck – one of the hundreds of waterfowl currently wintering on the river. The victim was laid out in typical Peregrine fashion with the head, wings, and feet in untouched condition (see here). A portion of the entrails were neatly pulled out and laid upon the down patch. The nice condition of the duck’s head afforded an opportunity for a detailed look at that wonderful Ruddy beak (see below and here). Everything else on the bird was well picked over but a lot of meat remained in place.

When I returned to the kill the next day, the duck had been worked over yet again and most of the meat was gone. By the time I left the kill this time, the carcass was missing both its head and feet. I acted as the scavenger and removed those portions for further forensic study. You could say that the Peregrine and I were partners in crime.

I rarely pass up the opportunity to dissect an owl pellet. Such peristaltically propelled predatory packets are keys to unlocking the secret nightlife of our neighborhood owls. I remind you that pellets aren’t poop. They consist of the undigested remains of prey animals – mostly hair, bones, and feathers – which are compacted in the crop and ejected out of the bird’s mouth. Pellets are propelled, in other words, from the north end of an owl looking north whereas everything else is propelled from the south end. So, picking apart a pellet is not as nasty as you might think.  If viewed with proper attitude, pellets can be considered as little presents packed full ‘o fun and mystery. You never know what’s going to be inside. What a great Christmas idea for that special someone.

My last opportunity to do some pellet picking occurred just before our recent snowfall. A Great Horned Owl tossed his offering down onto the sidewalk behind the nature center building. Apparently the bird was perched on the roof edge and felt compelled to let ‘er rip right then and there. The pellet broke upon impacting the hard surface below, but it would have been about three inches long (see here). This size range put it firmly in the Great Horned Owl category.

I’ve often wondered what it feels like to eject a pellet. Based on the birds I’ve seen, they don’t appear to like it. They shake their head about, and with half-closed eyes, open up and fire. After the deed is done there are usually a few lip smacks followed by a slight re-focusing of the eyes. Perhaps the only comparable human experiences are those nasty soda pop burps and up-chucking, but I doubt they are truly the same.

While pondering the above question I carefully pulled the “little mystery packet” apart. I went for the big obvious bone first – like shaking the money out of a birthday card before reading who it was from. In this case the big piece turned out to be a complete lower leg bone (called a tarsalmetatarsus) from a bird. The rest of the pellet consisted of bird remains as well – over 124 bone fragments from two different types of birds (see below). All of this, including an intact feather, was packed in the talcum like powdery matrix of digested feathers.

Great horns are primarily mammal killers. They will go after anything from tiny shrews to fuzzy lap cats. But, if there is one thing that can be said about this bird’s diet, it is eclectic. Records show that virtually any kind of smaller animal can find itself on the dinner list. This list may include a variety of fish, bats, amphibians, and a whole host of birds. There is even a circumstance where one of these owls descended into a chimney in order to pick off a few of the Chimney Swifts nesting there.

After a bit of detective work involving a text on bird osteology and comparative samples, I determined that the pellet bones represented a foot form a diving duck and the better (or worse part) of a small perching bird. The small bird, complete with a tiny wish bone, was probably a Starling and the identity of the duck centered on a Ruddy Duck.

Each evening for the past month the marsh adjacent to the nature center has been the gathering and roosting spot for thousands of blackbirds. Most of these sooty fellows are Starlings. The birds circle about like shifting schools of fish for about 20 minutes before settling for the night on the branches of the cottonwood trees. I now had proof positive that at least one Great Horned Owl was conducting nocturnal raiding parties on this bountiful bird offering.  In order to confirm the duck identification, I was lucky enough to come upon the fresh remains of a Ruddy Duck out by the lakeshore (you’ll hear more about this one in the next Naturespeak).  I boiled down the foot (see here) from that bird and rendered the bones for comparison.

The bone match, especially on the tarsometatarsus, was exact (see comparison above – the pellet bones are on the bottom). In fact, I was even able to figure that the pellet remains were form the right foot of some unfortunate Ruddy duck (see here). The only thing missing was the outermost toe. What I don’t know is how the owl obtained his duck meal. There is a chance that the owl scavenged the fowl just like I had. Since they’ve been recorded as taking live ducks, however, there is no reason to suppose our Ruddy wasn’t taken via a stealth attack on the ice. in short, it was a duck that didn’t duck in time!

I can’t wait for the next pellet. I’m looking forward to finding one that contains a little buckle in it from a cat collar.

The process usually goes like this. I find something that I think is interesting. I photograph it, measure it or do whatever it takes to record the thing, and then do some heavy research before committing the subject to cyberspace. More often than not I encounter my subjects by “accident” (although “by random discovery” might be a better wording choice). The other day I “randomly discovered” a Basswood tree adorned with seed clusters and, since I’ve always had a soft spot for Basswood, decided then and there to make them the subject of a future Naturespeak.  Welcome to the future.

Basswood seeds may not seem the stuff of close examination, but on a gray December day when nothing else is happening they provide plenty of grist for the mind mill. The fruiting structure of this plant is unique among northern trees. Unlike the winged seeds of maple and ash, where a winged appendage is attached directly to the individual seeds, the basswood uses a single wing to airlift an entire  cluster of seeds. Each fruiting cluster (called a cyme, in case you are looking for a scrabble word) is suspended from the branch by a single stem. A leafy wing (called a bract, in case “cyme” wasn’t good enough for you) is half-attached to this stem – the other half angling out to form a free wing.

Ideally, when the whole structure breaks free from the home branch the wing will give spin to the dropping cluster and carry it away from the mother tree. The first part of this journey, the vertical part, is a cumbersome affair.  The awkward rotation of the bract wing only manages to carry the seeds a few feet away – perhaps a tree length away if conditions are right. The second part of the journey, the horizontal part, is where the wing really does its thing. As the winter winds kick in, the bract wing functions as a sail to carry its load along the ground. Over a hard packed snow surface a basswood seed cluster can go for miles.

Some of you may recall that I already talked about this horizontal wind-surfing technique in a previous column, so I’ll leave that one alone and move on to the subject of seeds.

Basswood seeds are little brown nuts encased in a hard fuzzy nutlet. There are typically 6-20 per cluster. Individual trees will vary as to the shape of their nutlets and the specially endowed ones will have more than one nut per nutlet. I checked out the tree shown in the photos and was slightly disappointed to find that it was one of those standard “round nutlet with one nut apiece” trees. Exciting topic, eh?

Well, as the old adage goes, there’s more to a tree than round nutlets (what?). There are buds to consider. You’ll notice upon close examination that basswood buds are bright red (see here). Before continuing, see if you can say “basswood buds” three times fast. O.K., let’s continue. These brilliant basswood buds not only supply a good winter identification feature but they contribute to another potential tongue twister.  Brilliant Basswood buds become better by biting. They taste like peas, by the way. So, you can do a little basswood bud browsing before bypassing them.

One of the websites I researches went beyond this bud tasting advice and actually mentioned that the wood of this tree was “bland tasting.” While some of us may take occasion to down a few buds, not many of us are into eating wood – at least on purpose. I suspect that this entry was written by a beaver. The wood of the basswood is far better known for its wonderful carving qualities than for its taste although I suppose if you cooked it right and smothered it with enough gravy you’d end up with something edible for the holidays.

On a final note, there’s the matter of the Basswoods name. American natives totally disregarded the edible nature of the wood and instead made use of the bark. They would beat the snot out of the bark in order to expose the network of fibers within. These fibers were twisted into strong serviceable twine for making nets, baskets, and bags. The old fashioned English term for twine was “bast.” When this tree was given its Anglesized name the original term bastwood, or twine wood, was used. This term was eventually corrupted into basswood by other English speaking people who had a hard time talking while chewing wood.

Now you know why basswood has nothing whatsoever to do with fish. You would eat bass and would not eat wood.

The arrival of the icing season has put a whole new spin on life in the aquatic world. Creatures who were once at home in the transition zone where water meets air now have to choose between one or the other. Others have to accept the presence of an overhead  roof and the threat of oxygen depletion. All have to adapt, but then again that’s the way it has always been.

For the muskrat, the first layer of mid-December ice offered a new opportunity. For one Kent Lake (Kensington Metropark) ‘rat, the solid crust provided a base of operations for exploiting and harvesting a lush bed of aquatic plants (see above). Instead of venturing to and from an offshore plant bed, as he had all summer, this critter could now place himself directly over it. The submerged prize – probably some sort of tuber – was now obtainable via a short 30 second dive (see here) into an open lead of water. Eating could begin immediately after the muskrat crawled back out onto the ice. Such ice feeding sites are easy to spot, when the ‘rat is not there, due to the  fresh vegetation piled onto the ice.

I watched this fellow for the better part of ten minutes as he dove, rose, ate, and dove again. He stopped for a little grooming every now and then, but kept on task for the most part. Even though it was a bitter cold day with wind driven flurries, he looked quite happy with his lot – like a child who’d just discovered a bridge leading to a candy shop. As the ice thickens over the season he’ll have to maintain these open spots if he wants to continue. For now, however, life is good for a ‘rat on thin ice.

For another muskrat, the thicker ice layer on one of the Lake Erie Metropark lagoons forced him to remain submerged. He took advantage of the cold pack to do a little fishing. Fish become sluggish when trapped under the ice. Like otters, muskrats – at least our hardy Lake Erie ‘rats – frequently chase down and eat a few of these finny treats. The muskrat’s swimming abilities are normally more than a match for the fish but slower fish make for easier prey. Fortunately the ice was still thin enough to see through as one frisky ‘rat performed his piscatorial duties underneath the glassy ceiling (see below – a photo taken last year of the same situation).

After the muskrat left the scene, a very slow but very alive Painted Turtle could be seen crawling along the bottom. Among the most cold tolerant of reptiles, the sight of one of these reptiles under the ice is not all that unusual. It was a first for me, I have to admit. For this turtle, life under the ice will eventually require him to slow down. It’s not the cold or the lack of food that will grind him down- there’ll be plenty of dead fish to eat – but the lack of oxygen. Remarkably, Painted Turtles don’t need to surface as long as there is oxygen in the water. They can absorb the O2 through the skin lining their mouth and cloaca (yes, that’s the rear end) and, as long as they don’t do a whole lot, can survive on this.

Under solid ice conditions, however, the available oxygen supply eventually peters out. Turtles will then have to resort to anaerobic respiration- a process requiring that the creature literally begin digesting itself. Given the proper conditions a Painter can survive submerged in oxygen-depleted waters for over 5 months if necessary. A potentially fatal side effect of this process is the build up of lactic acid in the bloodstream. To get around this the turtle releases carbonate (calcium salts) into the blood stream in order to neutralize the acid. Most creatures don’t have enough extra bone in them to afford this costly procedure, but turtles can make use of their very substantial and very bony shells. By next spring, this wandering turtle will basically look the same but will weigh less. That’s a shell of a way to get by.

Many large bullfrog tadpoles share the Erie Marsh world of the Muskrat and Painted Turtle. As gill breathers they will depend upon the oxygen in the water to get them through the winter. Without any real bones with which to perform the “turtle trick” they resort to air gulping when O2 supplies are low. I watched a steady procession of tadpoles make their way to the “surface,” only to be halted by the thick  double layer of bubbly new ice. They groped about for a while until bumping into one of the many entrapped air bubbles. Then, probably after sucking in a bit of the gassy sweet stuff of life, they descended out of view. Theirs will be a long winter, but then again, they’re used to it.

Perhaps the most satisfying of thin ice scenarios involved several Canada Geese. These obnoxious birds are prime examples of the type of creatures which are forced to make a choice when they can no longer enjoy the benefit of swimming in the liquid water.

As witness to that moment in time when the ice was still forming on Washago Pond, I saw many geese pressed into making a choice. Many of them chose to stand on the land and avoid the water but when pressed these birds retreated to the water. They attempted to swim but found the water harder than usual and, after blundering about for a moment or two, soon broke through. Once in, they swam about within their mini-ponds (see below and here) until something in their pea-brained psyche told them move on. Their clumsy efforts and their ponderous weight prevented them from making any headway (see movie here).

The only way to final freedom was to resort to flying up and out until solid, albeit slippery, aqua-firma was reached. You’d think that they’d get the message. Mother Nature is telling them something.  Actually, they have several choices: they can die, leave, stand on the ice, or live under it (Admittedly the last choice will result in the first one). Real Canada Geese are supposed to migrate south to places where ice is not a factor. It’s their own fault if they stay here. The muskrat, tadpole, and turtle? Well, they have no choice.