Great (to be) Outdoors

Early May mornings are good for birdwatching but they bring other surprises, too: young mammalian wildlife.

On a walk from 7:45 to 8:45 Saturday along an overgrown defunct railroad track next to a stream I saw  something darkish poke its head out of the brush on the right side of the trail. It crossed about 50 feet ahead of me in an unhurried manner. I stopped walking, trying to become invisible, and slowly lifted my binoculars.

A large mink was heading to the stream. Its velvety-dark fur glistened. After it disappeared into the undergrowth next to the stream, I resumed walking, more slowly now.

Near the place where the mink had crossed, I heard a scuffling by the stream. Carefully exploring, I saw a smaller version of the mink. Its young? It looked up at me and, quick as a wink, dashed into a hiding place.

From my field journal …

May 12, 2000: Driving slowly along Milesburn Road after a trip to the lake (Long Pine Reservoir), Ken and I saw a single kit fox with no other family in sight.

The little thing was picking its way among the forest litter. We wondered if it was orphaned, lost or just very enterprising. A wee tail stuck straight out about 4 inches long from its fuzzed-out body, already hinting of red.

The youngster seemed quite grown up as it walked across the gravel road and leaped up the opposite bank.

May 3, 2004: … Another spring sighting today (at State Game Lands 169) were young muskrats. Each one we approached was busy eating, oblivious of our presence. One had a mouthful overflowing with large leaves. The funniest little guy was caught so off guard, it nearly tripped over itself as it charged up the pond bank. As it careened down the other side to the safety of water, it overshot its running steps and nearly somersaulted into the pond!

Uh-oh, they’re at it again.

Gray squirrels at the bird feeder are no picnic. In addition to the seed disappearing as soon as you turn your back, when you’ve got squirrels, the metal poles from which your feeders hang begin to list slightly in the direction the feeder hangs.

Gray squirrel feeding at a backyard bird feeder

I look up from breakfast and see the feeder jiggling and I know there is no wind. Within a second, a squirrel’s head appears at one side, its long translucent tail on the other.

I’ve been attempting to baffle squirrels since I’ve been feeding birds and I’ve yet to find one style of bird feeder that does the trick. I’ve used cones that attach under the feeder to keep them from scampering up the pole. I’ve got wire mesh large enough for birds to scamper through but (supposedly) small enough to deter squirrels. I’ve had weighted feeders and those that let you sift seed under a wire grid.

I’ve been out-squirreled every time. I have not tried the battery-operated feeder that whirls the squirrels into the air when they pounce on it. Something in me doesn’t want to see one of my backyard pests slammed into the shagbark hickory tree next to my feeder.

It’s time to share the pain. What do you do when your squirrels outnumber birds at your backyard feeder?

Notes from my field journal:

On Feb. 16, 1986, I wrote:

I’ve written a new law for myself: “Never go afield without the express intent of learning something new and never leave it without having done so.”

There are, of course, some clarifications to this law. The lessons, for example, need not be anything profound or the discoveries revolutionary. Any object, activity or sensation that catches my attention counts as “something new,” if I never noticed it before in the same way.

In recent wanderings into our back woodlot, I’ve made some “new” discoveries:

–When snow falls onto an abandoned bird nest in a thorn bush, it produces snow cones, little pointed caps of white on the cone shape of the nest.

–Between two tall trees at the end of the dirt road, just before entering the cornfield, I found a series of holes in the 4-inch-deep snow. These holes were spaced evenly about 18 inches apart, in a straight line. I knelt to inspect them and discovered that they tunneled under the snow in either direction, connecting the holes. I could barely make my hand fit into the tunnel but it was no mouse at work here; too large. A squirrel? Do they tunnel under snow, coming up for air and reassurance every 18 inches? …

On Feb. 10, 2010, I wrote:

The Blizzard of 2010 hit hard. Snow started Tuesday evening. I left work and it took more than an hour to get home.

I woke to whiteness. All the birdseed I had sprinkled on the deck was now under 10 inches of snow. But as I stood looking through the sliding glass doors to the deck and the woods beyond, a squirrel poked its head up out of one of three holes I noticed in the drift just outside the door. He obviously had been tunneling to feed on those delicious black oil sunflower seeds.

Sky blue has long been one of the standard colors in Crayola’s big box of 64 crayons.

Sky blue? What exact shade of blue is sky blue? When is the sky ever the same shade of blue? I can think of a dozen shades of blue in the sky.

For that matter, the sky is often not even blue. Lately, it’s been gray for many days on end; every shade from light gray to dark gray.

Sunrise and sunset are exciting times of day in terms of sky color.

In winter, the sky outside my southeast window begins with a peach ribbon just above the hills. The ribbon widens and becomes more crimson; some mornings, it’s the color of the clementine I have at breakfast. Often, clouds play with that warm red tone, breaking it up and pasting it out across the sky blue.

For many years, I had a rocking chair by the south-facing sliding glass door. A cup of tea was my companion as I watched the day break. My heart nearly broke when the person who lives on that far hill built a tractor shed on the peak of the hill, exactly where the winter sun rises.

Brilliant yellow sky followed an afternoon rain shower in January.

One January day, following an afternoon rain shower, the sun peeked back out from behind gray clouds and gilded the sky — Dandelion Yellow, Sunglow or maybe even Unmellow Yellow, to name a few Crayola colors that matched what I saw.

And of course, sunsets over the North Mountain often end the day with anything from a golden glow to a really rosy blast, often with a mixture of gold and rose.

Then, there’s the green flash; but oh, that’s another column.

How does the sky affect you? Got any sky thoughts?

It begins with a text or call from a birding associate or a quick glance at the state rare bird alert website. You see that a snowy owl has been sighted along a rural road in a town not far from where you live. You figure you have time to make a detour before work or decide to sacrifice your lunch break to shoot out there.

When you turn onto the road, you know exactly where to begin looking, as evidenced by the line of vehicles parked off-road. It’s a cold, windy morning but you get your first glance.

“See that white bump at the top of the hill to the right of the tree? That’s him,” says a guy with a scope that looks like it could bring in Mars on a cloudy night. He steps aside to let you look through his scope.

Dave Cooney Jr., Chambersburg, snapped this photo of the snowy owl from a distance.

Wow!

You’re hooked.

For four days, I’ve gone to Mud Level Road east of Duncan Road, Shippensburg, to watch “my” owl. I’ve claimed it as much as the others — different faces each morning, each evening — because I’ve been watching it for up to an hour at a time.

It doesn’t move much. It just sits there. One woman says, “About two minutes before you got here, it flew, from one hill over to the next.” I have only binoculars, so others graciously allow me to get a better look through their scopes, which are set up on tripods for the long haul.

Is it male? Female? Juvenile? Very mature? I’ve heard all theories. One man even quoted Scott Weidensaul — an author and lecturer on avian topics — to establish that it’s a mature male. It’s very white; the dark feathers you see in field guides are pale.

Have you seen the owl? What’s your story?

Without their leaves, bare trees don’t seem to have much to offer. It takes a sudden awakening to realize just how aesthetic the barren branches really are.

On my way to work this morning, I passed a twisted, bent, leafless tree along the side of the road. Early morning fog, backlit by a pale sun, highlighted its dark trunk and curving branches.

I’ve often noticed interesting trees as I passed them along the interstates but never really thought about why I liked looking at them, until my mother said it out loud.

“Without their leaves, trees show their true character,” she said, and instantly I realized what she meant. (Note: My mother does not claim this phrase, which she read “somewhere” and truly believes in.)

A tree in winter reveals its shape; it becomes almost alive and develops a personality.

I’ve recognized the character in crotchety, gnarled old trees; graceful, dancing trees; spooky, hollowed out trees; tired, bent-over trees; and even severe, over-trimmed trees in some people’s front yards. Their true shapes are often hidden by the leafy green we seek in summer’s heat.

Sycamore tree in winter

Some of my favorite bare trees are stately, old sycamores whose bark keeps peeling away to reveal, toward the crown, pure white branches. Look for some really old sycamores along creeks and in lowland meadows.

There’s a large maple along Scotland Road that I pass almost daily. I think it just MUST be decorated with a swing that dangles from its heavy horizontal branch.

Christmas bird counts are finished, for the most part.

Each year, local chapters of National Audubon Society participate in scheduled 24-hour bird counts that take place within a reasonable time  near Christmas Day. The purpose is to collect data from year to to year to compare how our overwintering birds are faring. I’m always amazed at the number of species my group finds in our assigned territory.

I’ve taken part in two bird counts this year: a Franklin County count Dec. 17 and a Cumberland County count yesterday (Jan. 2). It’s a great experience to be out in the cold-cloudy-icy-damp-windy weather of early winter, sharing the weather conditions of the birds we count.

Great blue heron, courtesy Pennsylvania Game Commission

Great blue heron, courtesy Chuck Layton

I wonder at the long-legged great blue heron, our largest wading bird, that continues to toe-step through frigid streams and ponds with its skinny, naked legs. But they’re here in winter, as well as in summer.

Or the tiny chickadees and nuthatches that sing heartily in the chill winds; how do they stand it overnight, when nightfall makes temperatures drop to freezing and below?

We counted a flock of bluebirds yesterday morning up at State Game Lands 169. They were flitting around near a large barn despite heavy clouds that kept the sun hidden. Cardinals were in abundance, as were juncos (nicknamed ‘snowbirds’), and different kinds of woodpeckers hacked away at tree bark in their everlasting search for boring insects.

The book, “Winter World,” describes the winter habits of birds, insects, mammals and reptiles that remain in the northern climates when snow and cold arrive. It was written by retired biology professor Bernd Heinrich, who set out to discover how the diminutive golden-crowned kinglets could survive winter nights in the Maine woods where he lived.  You’ll be filled with wonder at the diverse habits animals have adapted for their survival.

A circle of woods surrounds my neighbor’s house. I’m envious when I see the birds back there that infrequently visit my yard and feeders.

Walking down the lane to their backyard, I heard a familiar tap, tapping midway up a hickory tree: A woodpecker.

Judging by the loud, hollow sound, I figured it was a larger bird and a rather dead branch. Before long, I saw the carpenter at work. It was a pileated woodpecker, the largest woodpecker in the northeast.

Pileated woodpecker, courtesy of Pennsylvania Game Commission

About the size of a crow and sporting a bright red crest, this black woodpecker is a sight to behold, especially as it works its way up a tree trunk in a jerky motion. A pileated can gouge some really big holes into a tree trunk: Look for a rectangular hole in the trunk and chipped bark and wood at the base of the tree. Sometimes there are several holes lining a tree trunk.

Pileated woodpeckers have a habit of hanging face-up on a tree, anchored by their claws, and turning their heads left and right to listen for insects inside the bark.

Once, in early December, I awoke to the sound of someone knocking at the front door. Leaping from bed, I peeked through the glass in the door; nobody there. Something rapped again. I sneaked over to the sliding glass doors to the deck at the back of the house. A pileated woodpecker was chacking away at the deck railing! It was months later that I learned the bird was going after carpenter bee larvae that were buzzing inside the wood.

“Randy, don’t take me kayaking where there are any alligators!”

My command to my son went unheeded. If you don’t want to kayak with alligators, don’t kayak in Florida.

Since I was visiting and was outnumbered by Randy and friends, I went along. Juniper Spring is a gorgeous, clear stream, lined with palm and cypress trees. Two large alligators, five feet or more in length, sat still as statues, watching the convoy of five kayaks glide past them.

A manatee floats in the clear waters of Blue Spring in central Florida.

The following day at Blue Spring was even more impressive as the aqua waters covering the bubbling, sandy spring came alive with tubby shapes of manatees. At least 100 the day we were there, they come in to warm up when the ocean becomes too cold in winter.

Florida in December is doable, especially if a “cold front” rolls in the day you arrive and lasts until the day you leave.

Until I saw an afternoon sun melting across a hillside of yellow-to-red in MichauxStateForestin early October, I’d forgotten what time it was. Autumn has a way of sneaking up on me and this year, the season made me sadder than ever before — with the harsh reality of compromise it brought to my attention.

I’d taken a detour acrossPiney Mountain Ridge Road, looking at the rock piles more than anything else. A rock wall project for my front lawn needed some landscape inspiration.

The first shock of autumn was seeing gold on spears of fern among those rocks. How gracefully fern seem to age.

Shortly after passing Lippencote Trail, I pulled off the road at a powerline cut. There, a late-day sun was in full charge, heightening the multi-color of the receding hillsides. A picture-perfect view.

Except for the black electric wires strung along the center of the picture.

In one swift moment I realized that, in the mid-Atlantic, those of us who love the wilderness must make one more compromise. Effects from Marcellus Shale gas drilling has taken a toll on many places that used to be perfect to us. My upstate playlands (the Heishman family cabin inClintonCountyhas been home base for many an adventure) may have to fade into pleasant memories. I may have to play closer to home.

Wilderness lovers tend to be unforgiving and uncompromising, but we no longer have a choice. In November, 7 billion people will live on planet Earth. They must live somewhere. They will need food, water, shelter and energy.

I looked at the tree-covered mounds softened by golden sun. I let my eyes unfocus and pretended the wires were not there … the view was still pleasing, if not perfect.