Let me lay a startling statistic on you.  Although this figure varies between regions of the country, it is estimated that up to 75% of our annual crop of Ring-necked Pheasants die each winter. When pheasants enter into the “autumn of their lives” they can reasonably expect that there will be no second summer in their lives. With a track record like that you might come to the conclusion that these birds are wimps when it comes to toughing out the cold season. You’d think a flock of scarlet macaws could do better than that, but you would be very wrong. Ring-necks are actually pretty tough customers and are able to withstand almost any weather condition. It’s just that they have their limits.

While I’m fairly certain that the macaws would experience 100% population mortality if subjected to one day of northern winter, I have no documented evidence to back this assumption up.  I also do not advocate putting this to the test either. Macaws are made for life in the tropics, and that’s that.  Ring-neck Pheasants, on the other hand, are made for northern latitude winters. These birds originally hailed from China where they evolved with weather conditions very similar to our own. The average high/low January temperatures for Beijing, for instance, are 35 degrees F/14 degrees F.  Here in Monroe, Michigan we average a very similar 30 degrees F as a high and 15 degrees F as a low. Another factor to consider is that Ring-necks were introduced to this country about a 100 years ago and have had ample time to adjust to the the harsher conditions found in portions of their adopted range such as the Great Plains. So, why the high pheasant flopping rate? 

I have two answers to this last question. First of all, this mortality rate is not especially high – it is a death rate which is typical of many very successful creatures. Young, sometimes dumb, and often weak yearling animals just don’t have what it takes to make the cut. It’s not survival of the cutest. This may offend our human sensibilities, but it is as much a part of reality as gravity (and one which should give us a good sense of the gravity of  natural survival). Secondly, this brings to mind that about the only thing winter pheasants can’t stand are blowing snow and extreme cold. A string of normal winters will be balanced out by a few really bad years. This, unfortunately, is a bad year.

I spotted a Ring-neck (pictured above) plowing through some deep snow in western Monroe County last week. The bird was belly deep in powder and wandering somewhat aimlessly (see his tracks below). I believe he was contemplating crossing the open field area but was hesitant. You can almost see the indecision in his trail (O.K., I’ll go…No, better not…Oh, why not…Nope, too far…). Pheasants can fly, but prefer to walk. Given the brutal sub-zero temperatures and deep snow – deep for these parts anyway – this bird was looking a little worse for wear and probably trying to limit his energy output.

It wasn’t until the rooster spotted me an made a dash for cover that I realized he only had one tail feather left.  He proudly held his single point of pride aloft as he disappeared into a thicket. Pheasants require a good mix of cultivated field and dense cover (marshes, brushy fence rows, and weedy ditches) in order to survive these trying times. Why this bird was attempting to leave his cover in the first place is anybody’s guess.

These winter birds usually don’t die from outright starvation. They manage to find enough grain, weed seeds, and berries to get by. Some also get taken by Red Foxes, Coyotes, or Great-horned Owls as well. Oddly enough, the birds are more suceptible to the weather itself. They can die of suffocation if caught in a high bitter wind without shelter. Ice will build up and clog their their nostrils and eventually create an ice block in their mouth as they attempt open it up to breathe.

Many of the winter-killed Ring-necked Pheasants won’t actually die until very late winter or early spring. This is the point at which their reserves are totally used up and they just “run out of gas.” Female birds stressed out by a severe winter won’t be able to produce young either, so the entire population takes a dip. The nice thing about averages, though, is that what goes down must come up and unless there is a string of severe winters, the pheasants will bounce back.

I hope my uni-plumed bird male is one of the lucky 25%. He may be a floundering fowl, but he’s got a good genetic background to back him up. He definitely is keeping a stiff upper lip, that’s for sure.

White-throated Sparrows take winter very seriously but there’s something about their demeanor that takes the edge off the season for the rest of us. All active winter wildlife (the dead ones don’t count) are engaged in a daily struggle for survival.  The search for food and shelter can be an all-consuming effort when things get tough. White-throats are always searching about, foraging, calling, or gathering into small rambunctious feeding flocks. In short, they are constantly reminding us just of how hardscrabble their tiny lives can be. They do it with such grace and dignity, however, that they make it look natural.

Although they offer some pretty fascinating  patterns, most sparrows are relatively plain brown birds. White-throated Sparrows stand out among the sparrow set because of  their striking black, white, and yellow crown markings. Being good looking is a definite eye-catching trait for bird and man alike (not this particular man, mind you). A key characteristic, and one which probably goes without saying,  is their white throat set against a buffy gray breast (see above). Hardly anything in nature is as it first appears, which is why I’d like to get back to these markings in a moment. First, we need to take a look at how these sparrows forage.

White-throats spend a large part of their time on or near the ground. They are ground gleaners, which means they specialize in  finding hidden foodstuff on the ground. Their discovery technique involves scratching about much like tiny barnyard chickens. By hopping forward with both feet and then briskly pulling them back, leaves and snow cover are sent flying and a space is cleared to reveal what lies beneath. During the winter they expect to reveal enough seeds or hibernating insects to keep them going.  Take a look at this short video I made of one of these birds actively burrowing into some bark chips (watch movie here). It was an especially cold day and the promise of a sheltered patch of uncovered ground was too much for it to ignore. This fact also explains why his feathers are fully puffed out as a buffer against the single digit temps.

Burrowing is the only word to describe what these little guys can do. Given the proper incentive (that being food) they can dig an inch or more into the ground. A determined individual will dig a series of small potholes over a large area if the rewards are sufficient to reward the labor. It is a deliberate act on their part to nearly deplete a spot before moving to another. They are not normally social birds, but during the winter small flocks of feeding White-throated Sparrows will gather together for mutual safety. Large groups can afford to be further from cover, so the benefit is clear. There is a definite hierarchy within these impromptu groupings. I guess you could call these ground rules to insure that there is enough to go around. Dominant birds, for instance, are allowed  to pick areas closer to cover than younger subordinate birds. It is a matter of natural fact that the more exposed birds – i.e. the yearlings – will get picked off more frequently by predators, but these things are probably not brought up at the team meetings.

There is one more subtle mark of rank within a White-throated Sparrow society group. These sparrows come in two different genetic “morphs” that exist side by side – distinguished by the intensity of their colors. Until about thirty years ago, these color variations were considered differences between adult and juvenile traits, but such turned out not to be the case. The so-called “tan striped” individuals have muted colors and off-white crown stripes. The individual in the above picture, and the one in the video, are examples of this type of  dull bird. “White-striped” birds, like the one shown here, are brightly marked with bleach-white striping and bright yellow spots above the eyes.

Being known as a dull bird might seem like a downer but it has some advantages. It’s easier to hide from those nasty predators without that flashy white head pattern. Oddly enough, the opposite morphs are attracted to each other. Not every sparrow in this clan is on equal footing with the next. It is almost an avian case of reverse discrimination or something. Male tan-stripes prefer the romantic company of  female white-stripes and vice versa.

Admittedly, these affairs of the heart and morph don’t really matter in the dead of winter. The birds will have plenty of time to act out their romantic inclinations when they return to the boreal forests for the nesting season. The important thing now is to get through the winter without getting dead and to scratch your way to Springtime.

Spend anytime outdoors during the winter and you are liable to get red-faced. You’ll slip on the ice in front of your neighbor and embarrass yourself, scream at that plow driver who just scraped a load of snow across the end of your freshly cleaned driveway, or slowly loose the feeling in your nose and cheeks as you work to clear off that newly deposited load of snow. Getting flush is a natural emotional and physical reaction to the world around us. I guess you could say it makes us human, except for the fact that we are not the only living beings to get red in the wintertime. Red Osier Dogwood twigs do it too.

Now, before you get all red-faced with indignation at being equated to a stick, let me say outright that dogwoods do not possess souls and are not a threat to our identity (If you are a Druid, please ignore this remark as one made by an ignorant non-believer). These common dogwoods are  low, multi-stemmed shrubs found throughout our landscape. Like all dogwoods, they have an opposite budding and branching growth habit, but they are best identified this time of year by their bright coral red, or burgundy, stems.

It’s not necessary to take a closer look to appreciate them, but if you do (see here) you’ll see that the smooth shiny bark  has a gem-like quality. You will notice many raised ovals, called lenticels,  that pepper the  finish.  These serve to provide a white contrast to that marvelous background color.  At this point, you might be thinking  that this bark is probably just as red during the summer as it is during the winter so my point is pointless. Actually, however, this is not the case. Young Red-Osier twigs turn scarlet in the fall and stay that way through to the following spring. Around these parts they take on their red hue during the first half of October. Before that time, the branches are dull reddish purple to gray.

This dogwood species is a favorite for landscape plantings because it adds a splash of color to an otherwise colorless season. One horticultural variety, developed by the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum, is called the “Cardinal” because it produces an especially bright scarlet winter bark. Native basket makers have learned to collect the mid-winter twigs and use them just like willow twigs for basketry. The name “Osier”, by the way, is derived from the French term for  “Willow-like.”  “Dogwood,” for those who like complete thoughts, is believed to be a corruption of “daggerwood”  but no one really knows. “Red” means exactly what it says.

It is a singular and somewhat incredible fact that the Red-Osier turns red during the winter. Part of the reason for this pretty conversion has to do with a chemical change in the wood itself, but the explanation is not pretty. This species is considered to be one of the most freeze tolerant plants known. Scientists have been able to bring the temperature down to -269 degrees C (the same temperature as liquid helium) without killing it. I wonder if the scientist who made that observation announced his discovery with a really high voice due to the effects of the helium?  That would be embarrassing wouldn’t it!  Anyway, the mechanism works like this. The shortening days of autumn prompt the dogwoods to lower their stem water content and subsequently increase the amount of a chemical known as 24 kD protien.  This protein has something to do with the incredible freeze tolerance of this plant and probably stimulates the “red-effect.”

I wish I could say that the 24 kD protien is red colored and therefore directly turns the bark red, but I would be barking up the wrong tree to do so. Other dogwoods have this protein as well, but apparently not to the extent the Red-Osier does. This is why I say “red-effect.”  This word is derived from the French for “I don’t really know, but there is a connection.” Let’s just say this dogwood has a nice bark and be done with it.

For my second installment of things re-considered, I will spend a few lines on the subject of deer. I don’t like deer – they are not pretty, graceful, or especially witty when it comes to ways of the wild. They reproduce like rabbits and leave a path of habitat destruction wherever they go.  But, I have to admit a grudging respect for them. It is one of my New Year resolutions to say something good about deer. As a male, I am envious of bucks and the sight of one will always cause me to freeze in my tracks. Whitetail Deer are a resilient, hardy and adaptable species and in some ways they outdo us in that regard. They also engage in play, which is an “en-deering” trait.

I recently encountered a group of yearlings and does one fine early January morning.  Each and every individual in this pod of deer saw me approach, but for some reason they allowed me to watch their antics for a short while. Being armed with a camera rather than a handful of food, I posed neither threat nor attractant. They were in the middle of a gaming session and weren’t about to stop.

Take a look at this movie (see here) and you’ll see what I’m talking about. You don’t have to be a behaviorist to see that the friskier members of this assemblage are acting like playful dogs. The wide-legged bow followed by a quick backup and a frantic gallop cuts across species from canine to cervid. Chasing is another identifiable play trait, except that these guys don’t roll and tumble when they finally make contact.

Most of the emotion is expressed through body language. Chief among these signals is the use of the tail flag. The bright white underside of that appendage is usually reserved for use as a warning flag. When spooked, fleeing deer will not only raise their “flag” but will wave it about as they run (see here). In this play group, however, their tails are not only flagged but are held tightly curled high over the back. Here, again, is a sign that deer are not as serious as they may first appear – there is a kernel of mammalian whimsy in their tail use. One of the things that seems to be missing from this apparently carefree session is sound, but it is there.

Listen carefully, and you’ll here a very loud “bleat” after one of the running deer brushes past one his fellow fawns. The sound is more like a quack from a toy duck. This vocalization occurs near the end of the video and is easily missed unless you play it over and over. It stands out because the rest of the session is silent.

Oddly enough, white-tail deer are a fairly vocal bunch, but they limit their voice performances to private performances. Most of the sounds are fairly quiet, but a social grunt used by does can carry over 300 feet or so. One of the most commonly heard of deer expressions is the loud “snort-stomp” in which a deer blows a rush of air through the nostrils and simultaneously stomps its  foot on the ground. This is intended to startle a mysterious observer (such as a hunter or a naturalist) into moving or otherwise revealing himself. Believe me, it works.

Outdoor writer T.R. Michels documents no fewer than 13 different deer sounds including tending clicks, grunt-snort-wheeze, and the ever-popular nursing whine. An addtional sound, the buck growl, was discovered a few years ago and became the inspiration for a new type of artificial deer call. I have not been able to find any reference that mentions this “play-quack” sound, however. Hey, maybe this observation will make me famous one day – or not. Actually I don’t care about that since I’ve already been rewarded by the opportunity to watch a group of deer doing something other than eating or bounding away.

It’s time for me to turn over a new leaf.  You know, with the new year and all that I figure it would be a good time to suck it in and pay homage to things I generally dislike.  This being a nature column, I am referring to such things as  cats, deer, phragmites, and…cats. I have a grudging respect for deer, so they won’t be hard to do. Phragmites, those plume-top habitat stealing plant monsters will be harder, but they too have some merit somewhere. I’ll do something about cats maybe next year or never – whatever comes first. No, I’d rather start my penance with Mute Swans, if you don’t mind.

Normally, I would only refer to Mute Swans as swimming hogs, but I am reminded by my better nature that these swimming hogs are not responsible for their obnoxiousness. Like weeds, they are simply living things that are in a place where humans don’t want them. People brought them here and allowed them to freely multiply and flourish. Like weeds they are exceedingly adaptable and durable and therefore successful as New World colonists. Just because they destroy aquatic habitats and chase away native waterfowl is no reason to hate them at a deep personal level.  In fact, saying  a few positive things about Mute Swans will neither hurt nor help them, so why not let me try, eh?

Mute Swans are sleek looking creatures. You’ll get no argument from me on this point. With their black-knobbed orange bills, graceful curvatures, and large size they are easy to identify from a distance (see the grouping above and the feeding ones here). They won over the early Europeans with their ceramically proportioned  good looks. This is the primary reason they were domesticated some 1,000 years ago. Never functioning as food, they were treated more as ornaments. In the 12th century “Twelve Days of Christmas” song, the geese did all the laying and the seven swans just swam around and looked pretty.

These domesticated swans were considered to be the exclusive property of royalty. The peasants were allowed their cheap little hedgehogs and bargain-basement geese, but swans could only be possessed by people of means. Every swan was marked and pinioned. Swan marks, brand-like symbols inflicted on each bird, were carefully recorded in official books that recorded ownership.  Most of these marks were carved into the upper mandible of the beak to create a permanent scar, although some involved punching holes into the foot webbing or clipping certain nails. All the swans belonging to the Earl of Surry, for example, had a Maltese cross on their beak, while those claimed by the Duke of Suffolk bore a pair of parallel lines over the top of the beak. An annual “upping”, or round-up, was conducted to mutilate the new crop of cygnets. A “cygnet,” by the way, is the special name reserved for the reproductive product resulting from the union of a “cob,”or male, and a female called a  “pen.”

Although it would be tempting to continue on the mutilation theme, I’d like to veer back in a positive direction and briefly examine the alleged muteness of this species. You’d think Mute Swans, in honor of their name, would be silent creatures but they are not. They find many ways to make a noise unto the world. Their whistling wing beats, while technically not calls per se, are a loud and distinctive part of their repertoire (listen here). Mutes are also able to make vocal sounds as well. These nasal calls (listen here and here) are not pretty but they are legitimate sounds. Because Mute Swans do not possess the long convoluted trachea of their melodious cousins, the Trumpeter and Tundra swans, their calls are relatively quiet and simple.

The best way I can think of to describe these pitiful vocal efforts is to describe them as  painfully suppressed sneezes – the kind that royalty perform when in front of their public.  As you now know, this is a very fitting analogy.

In 1857 Henry David Thoreau paused to contemplate a set of wandering fox tracks crossing a frozen pond. He theorized that the footprints recorded the thought pattern of God through the wanderings of a single one of his creatures. In essence, the dusty snow enabled the animal to write a written record of his day. “The pond,” he wrote, “was his journal, and last night’s snow made a tabula rasa for him.”

Mr. Thoreau, as was his way, was obviously thinking way too much, but he has a point. Tabula rasa is fancy-speak for a “blank slate” or a blank page. The tracks on that blank page of new fallen snow are a form of written journal entry from a non-literate being. Though he probably knew the difference, Mr. Thoreau didn’t identify the exact fox species in question. When in the midst of philosophical musing, such a thing is completely irrelevant. A wombat could have made those tracks and the same conclusion could have been drawn, although the idea of a dim-witted Australian marsupial  freezing to death in the north woods of America would have presented a whole new set of questions (would the wombat have felt abandoned by God, for instance?).  This is why I am a naturalist and not a philosopher – I answer the wrong questions.

Thoreau’s fox identification choice in New England would have been between a Gray or a Red Fox. I wasn’t thinking of philosophy when my son and I spotted this set of fox tracks last week (see above) at Crosswinds Marsh. I was thinking straight identification. Wombat was immediately ruled out, but the first impression was that these were the journal entries of a Red Fox. I took a few shots, measured one of the tracks with a broken twig, and returned to the I.D. later. When faced with filling a tabula rasa of my own, in the form of a blank blog page, I re-examined the photo evidence and discovered that the paw prints were those of a Gray and not a Red Fox.

Assigning the word “Gray” as prefix to the word “Fox” in this case was a matter of scale. It is especially important to measure wild canine tracks because they can look very similar. From Timber Wolf on down to Kit Fox, there is a steady down-grading of print size although the pattern remains basically the same. Regionally, from larger to smaller, the list goes from coyote to red fox to gray fox. These particular tracks measured a hair (intentional pun) over 1.5 inches each – which places them squarely in the realm of the tiny Gray Fox. Red Fox tracks are significantly larger and start about where the largest Gray tracks leave off. In body weight and length the two species are very close, but proportionally they are quite different . The Gray fox has significantly shorter hind feet and smaller prints.

There are other considerations when fox tracking. Red foxes tend to have very hairy paws that leave very little bare pad exposed whereas Grays are less hirsute (that’s Thoreauspeak for hairy) and show more pad. Both species can partially retract their nails in a cat-like manner, so often their tracks don’t record the presence of claw marks. Gray foxes tend to hang out in thicketed or wooded areas and Reds hang out in fields, hedgerows and backyards. These were woodland prints.

You’ll note that this animal was walking at a leisurely pace. It was placing each foot into the print of the one before it. Each track was a double impression in which the smaller hind foot was superimposed upon a larger front track (see below- especially on lower right track). This manner of walking creates the typical “line of dots” pattern so common in canines. Henry David and God both knew that. Now that you know it, you are one step closer to being God-like

Because Gray Foxes are primarily nocturnal, they are rarely seen but are very common in some parts. More often than not, they reveal themselves to us daytimers as either road kills or track marks. These sleek little gray, white and chestnut colored  foxes are peculiar among the wild dog tribe because they can climb trees and will eat a wide variety of fruits.  I have a friend who regularly had one come to his backyard Mulberry tree whenever it was in fruit to feed among the branches like an over-sized squirrel.  Winter is, of course, the polar opposite of mulberry season and I suspect our little fox was patrolling for mice, small birds, or carrion.

The winds had erased the rest of  this fox’s journal writings, so we were unable to read them any further. I guess God was wiping the slate clean.

Well, it’s official. We’ve arrived at the year 2009 and the end of the ten year state quarter cycle. The State of Michigan version of the 25 cent coin is the ugliest and plainest one in the bunch – an inspired design that shows only the slightly raised outline of the state surrounded by all of the great lakes. Yes, even Lake Ontario is included even though we have no land connection to that body of water what-so-ever. I’m sure the committee thought long and hard on their decision not to include Lake Champlain in the final design.

Every other state in the union chose to illustrate at least one natural or cultural symbol to represent it. Grizzly bears, Loons, Scissor-tail Flycatchers, guitars and Sugar Maple trees play a prominent visual role  in this historic line-up of coinage.  South Carolina, for instance, went with a  depiction of a Carolina Wren (their state bird) and a palm tree on their two bit piece. In a bold Michigan type move, they even went so far as  to include an outline of their state in the design. Michigan was going to sue for the idea theft, but were pre-occupied with Lake Ontario land claim suits filed against it by the state of New York and the province of Ontario.

I am warmed by one thought, however, as we forge ahead into the chilly winter days of the new year. That same Carolina Wren so lovingly depicted on the South Carolina quarter has become a regular sight here in S.E. Michigan. This southern bird has expanded it’s range into the northern states over the course of the past 50 years or so and they are now a common permanent resident in this neck of the woods. Their clear throaty song can be heard at any time of the year, but winter happens to be one of the best times to see and hear Carolina Wrens.

The calls of this bird are very unwrenlike in tone. Whereas their kin issue harsh or scrambled vocalizations, the Carolina Wren belts out a clear fruity tune which has been characterized as “tea-kettle, tea-kettle, tea-kettle.”  I recorded this song (listen here) only a few weeks ago on a clear crisp winter morning. In this case, the songster was the open-mouthed individual pictured above. He was filling the air with his Dixie song-stylings from within the protective cover of a Gray Dogwood thicket. Although males are the primary songsters, both sexes will let out a worried “Churl” call (listen here) when filing a complaint. This latter call, like the song, will carry quite a distance through the dry winter air.

A prominent white eye stripe, combined with a white throat, buff belly and a long bill are the key visual features for this large wren species, but they are more often heard than seen. They sing throughout the year and thus their call is an ever present reminder of their ever presence. As a species they are non-migratory and monogamous, so when a pair takes up residence in the neighborhood they generally stick around through thick and thin.

Oddly enough, as hardy and persistent as Carolina Wrens are, they can be very cold-sensitive. Their northward expansion has been  interrupted by severe winter weather events over the years. The winter of 1977-78 knocked ’em for a loop. It took the better part of a decade before they finally recovered and exceeded their pre-1977 numbers in lower Michigan and N.W. Ohio. Thick blankets of snow are especially harmful because these birds are basically ground feeders. We could see their numbers plummet again if this winter proves deadly, but at least we can be assured they will bounce back.

At present, they are on the advance – bringing southern charm to a northern state in the throes of coin confusion.

While in the midst of a windy and bitter Alberta clipper cold snap, I am usually less than tempted to go outside. My only excuse for this lack of fortitude is that most sensible animals sit tight during such periods.  “Holing up” is a natural and safe thing to do. I am a sensible animal. I will, however, spend an inordinate amount of time standing by the window during such weather and mumble to myself – saying middle-aged things like “Geeze, it’s really blowing out there” or “It looks like there’s no letting up.”

During one of my window expeditions, I spotted a basswood seed bract swirling around just outside the back door (see above). It was riding on an endless wind-go-round on top of the snow crust along with a variety of vegetative riff-raff.  The closest Basswood tree was, as far as I knew, nearly a quarter mile away.  So the sight was a slightly unusual one around my place. It prompted me to crack open the door, venture a few feet out into the bitter cold, and snap a few pictures. I used a zoom setting so I didn’t have to go too far out. “Geeze,” I mumbled upon returning, “it’s really blowing out there.”

Being that nature came to me this time, I felt it only right to spend some time contemplating the fine details of Basswood seed distribution. Basswoods are common mid-western trees known for producing fine carving wood and “bast” – or twine – rendered from the bark. They are also known as “honey trees” for the honey produced by bees feeding on their nectar-rich flowers. These flowers bloom in June and eventually turn into the unique seed structures shown above.

The flower/seed unit consists of a woody stem suspended from the center line of a modified leaf called a bract. Like the winged seeds of the maples and ashes, the Basswood cluster is made to take flight upon being released. The structure (see below) bears an uncanny resemblance to one of those old-fashioned whirligig flying toys – you know, the kind that inspired the Wright Brothers to break the bonds of gravity. Unfortunately, this uni-wing only propels the falling seed bunch a few tree lengths away under the best of fall wind conditions and straight down when no wind is present. Ahh, but the Basswood has another trick under its woody sleeve to overcome this fault.

They don’t release most of their seed structures until winter arrives. They wait until winter levels everything first. Tiny, but tenacious, tendrils hold the stem onto the branch until winter gales force them to finally relent. Taking advantage of crusted snow and high velocity winds, the structure sails along over the open surface like an ice boat over a glassy frozen lake.  In other words, the initial flight sends the seeds a short distance from the tree and the skidding experience keeps it going, and going, and going like the Energizer Bunny. One by one, the tough encapsulated seeds fall off and settle down through the melting snow to the spot they will call home for the next 100 years if they are lucky enough to sprout.

This snow sliding technique is all but ignored in modern literature – the wing function rather than the sail function, is emphasized. I consulted one of the old texts to find a description which adequately explained this winter dispersal method.

Towards that end, I quote Dr. W.J. Beal, professor of botany at the Michigan Agricultural College (now Michigan State University) from his 1898 book called Seed Dispersal. He observed that “before snow had fallen in 1896, by repeated moves on a well-mown lawn, fruits and bracts (of the Basswood) were carried about 200 feet, while with snow on the ground the distance was almost unlimited. With a crust on the snow and a good wind the conditions are almost perfect…to propel it much a sail propels a boat.”

Some 110 years after Dr. Beal revealed it, this unique little piece of natural history news announced itself at my own back door. “It looks like there’s no letting up” when it comes to uncovering nature’s wonders.

There is a constant battle for life going on out there beyond our doorsteps. I am referring to the interplay of natural players. We only rarely see the interaction of predator and prey, and often that is reduced to a fleeting view of the chase. More often than not, we are not there to view the exact circumstances of death or experience the thrill of the final escape. When we are witness to a “kill,” it becomes a rare and singular experience.  Because of this we tend to view violent death as a rare thing in nature. Nothing could be further from the  truth. Death, raw and definite, is an essential part of the natural scheme – as common as the passing of a cloud and as regular as the flow of water down a stream.

I was not witness to the common death of a Mourning Dove in my own backyard but, thanks to the snow track record, I can testify as to some of the particulars. In viewing the scene (see below). I believe the victim was attacked while in the air and brought to earth. A few drops of rich red blood surrounded by a halo of feathers and wing marks (see detail here) indicates where the bird was dispatched and a series of scooping wing beats (see detail here) reveal where the killer struggled to get airborne with her hefty meal.

The scattered feathers, like the single contour feather shown above, are enough to identify the victim as a Mourning Dove. These birds are common features of the winter landscape. They gather into small winter flocks and are frequent visitors to neighborhood bird feeders. I don’t have a feeder (surprising, you may think, for a naturalist but I’ve got my reasons) but I do have plenty of large spruce trees and a small stream for cover and water. On any given day, therefore, there are plenty of doves around. This also implies that my yard is a regular hangout for bird predators who stop in to scope out the joint, so to speak.

The predator in this case was probably a female Cooper’s Hawk. Cooper’s are “bird hawks” who specialize in avian prey. The females are larger than the males and they have more “umph” in their hit. This means that they can take down larger birds. A female Cooper’s weighs in a over a pound, whereas their male counterparts are closer to 12-13 ounces. Mourning Doves weigh only about 5 ounces, but are relatively large when you consider their wingspan and lengthy tail.

My statement that the killer was probably a female is also based on more than gender supposition, my dear Watson. There is a perfect spread eagle…er, spread hawk…er, snow angel imprint right next to this kill site (see here). I’m thinking that the hawk could have missed as part of an earlier attempt on a different bird and plunged into the snow as a result.  The wingspan indicated by this mark is clearly in the female Cooper’s range.  There is a more obscure repetition of this spread eagle, or whatever you want to call it, pattern surrounding the actual kill location and the wingspan measurements are about the same at both spots.

I can also theorize that Col. Mustard was hiding within the cover of nearby spruce tree boughs and that he, or she, launched several attempts from that location before achieving success. She returned to the base of that very tree to finish off her meal (see here).

Dove feathers were scattered all about the kill site. Accipiters, such as the Cooper’s, pluck their prey before eating it. It is a point of professional pride among them I guess. This evidence alone would have identified both the type of perpetrator and the exact identity of the “perputee” in a snowless landscape.  As it was here, we have a sort of surveillance tape record of the event starkly recorded in the snow.

It is important to keep in mind that this situation, in spite of my inexpert use of police terminology, was not a crime.  It was merely a chance record of real life.

As evidence that opossums can push the envelope every now and then, I present this picture. It would be inaccurate to say that this individual was speeding, but it was “moving rapidly forward.” It guess you could say it was trotting. The blur factor gives the image a NASCAR type look. The fleeing beast was dashing for the finish line, and the cover of the brush line, just as the picture was snapped.

This speedster was the second such opossum that I encountered in so many weeks. Last week, another one crossed the road in front of me (yes, they actually can successfully cross the road on occasion) and did so at a brisk pace. Watching that one, and the one pictured above, I have gained a new respect for ‘possum trotting skills. These animals, plantigrade or flat-footed walkers that they are, engage in a determined form of speed walking. Head down and tail held straight out, they burn up ground at the rate of approximately 4.5 mph.

All of this got me to wondering what you should call this style of movement. It certainly isn’t running and I’m not sure trotting is the correct term. Several southern states have a town named Possum Trot, but that doesn’t make it right. So, I hit the references and Internet for answers and came up with the usual mix of tripe and truth. For instance, one site claims that 8.3 million opossums are killed on our roads every year – in essence proving the claim that they can’t run and are born dead on the road! Another one classifies them as rodents and puts them in the company of “mice, rats, and raccoons.” They are marsupials, by the way, and raccoons are in the weasel family.  I also found out that there is actually an organisation called the Opossum Society of North America. I wonder if they have 8 million members? Anyway, one site did put out the 4.5 mph figure based on a reference from McManus (1970), but didn’t commit to the running question.

Finally, the Royal Veterinary College in England came up with the answer. They were working on elephants. “Elephants can’t technically run,” they said ,” but they do walk fast.” Pachyderms have been clocked at over 15 mph. The usual definition of running implies that at one point all four feet need to be off the ground. In other words, there is an aerial stage. Elephants always have at least one foot on the ground when moving fast and can “bounce.”

The scientists explained this question of “bouncing” in detail but essentially said that motivating with bent knees creates a “bounce” movement that aides kinetic energy transfer. They, in fact, gave this type of movement the name of “Groucho Running.”  I quote their definition that this “unusual form of running gait often lacks an aerial phase. It is known among many animals with more than four legs, as well as some four-legged animals such as lizards, sheep, opossums, and others and bipeds such as birds at medium speed and comedic humans.”

So, there you have it. Opossums, like elephants,  are Groucho Runners. That may be “the most ridiculous thing you ever hoid,” but it is documented science.