A Winter Egret

Great egrets are fairly common in Missouri during the warmer months.  Most of these birds, the largest egret in North America, do not breed in our region but wander up the Mississippi and Missouri Valleys in late summer.  Since they feed primarily on small fish and aquatic invertebrates, they generally head south before ponds, lakes, wetlands and streams freeze over.

I was thus surprised to encounter a lone great egret at Eagle Bluffs Conservation Area this morning; flying across the entry road, the bird appeared to be in good health.  Following several mild December days, with highs in the 60s (F), the weather was more winter-like this morning and the sighting of an egret was certainly unexpected.  Indeed, other sightings were rather limited, including hundreds of mallards, a lone canvasback, six great blue herons, three red-tailed hawks and the usual mix of winter songbirds.

The winter egret symbolized the reason why birding is a popular hobby; we never know what species we may encounter, regardless of the season or weather conditions.  Bored by a host of common residents, we may suddenly come across a rare visitor, making our field trip especially memorable.

Sparrow Challenge at Eagle Bluffs

Though I knew that most of Eagle Bluffs Conservation Area was closed for duck hunting, I decided to make a brief excursion anyway.  On this pleasant December morning, most of the shallows were frozen but the open central channel had attracted a large number of mallards, a few dozen Canada geese and six trumpeter swans.

Other sightings were rather limited but, in a corner of one field, a large number of sparrows flitted about, briefly posing on stems of dried weeds and wildflowers before disappearing into the dense jungle of grass and low shrubs.  Since sparrow identification has always been a challenge for me, even after 45 years of birding, I stopped to survey the activity for awhile.  In the end, I had identified five species (song, savannah, white-throated, swamp and American tree sparrows).

Savannah sparrows can be especially challenging to identify since their plumage is highly variable.  Furthermore, they, like their cousins, tend to prefer dense vegetation in which to hide from predators while scouring the ground for seeds.  In fact, a red-tailed hawk surveyed the scene from a nearby tree but was more likely looking for mice, voles and cottontails.

Just Open Space

On this sunny, cool morning in central Missouri, I visited Bradford Farm, east of Columbia.  An agricultural research center for the University of Missouri, it is also a popular local birding destination.

Due to last week's snowstorm, the graveled roadways were sloppy and most of the crop fields were still covered with a thin veneer of wet snow; both ponds were frozen over. Fortunately, I had driven my pickup back from Colorado and had no problem negotiating the farm roads; also, the less-than-ideal conditions helped to insure that I was the only visitor.  Unfortunately, the birding was not so great and I observed only nine species during my one-hour tour, highlighted by a male northern harrier that hunted low over the crop fields.

Then again, we naturalists relish the opportunity to spend time in open country, whether it be farmland, forest, prairie, tundra or wetland; no doubt, most of us appreciate a bit of solitude as well.  So this morning's visit was well worth my time and effort; just open space, with its sights, sounds and smells, is rewarding enough.

Geese, Hawks and Aliens

On this bright, frosty morning across the Great Plains, my bird sightings between Hays and Topeka were limited to geese, hawks and aliens.  To be completely honest, I also observed a few crows and meadowlarks.

Flocks of Canada geese were common on the crop fields, grasslands and frozen ponds while their cousins (snow, Ross's and greater white-fronted geese) are farther south by this time of year.  The hawks, easily observed in barren trees along the highway, were exclusively red-tails; had I been traveling west from Hays, across the High Plains of western Kansas and eastern Colorado, they would have been primarily rough-legged hawks.

The alien species, not native to North America, were European starlings and rock pigeons.  The starlings wheeled above the wintry landscape, performing their impressive aerial ballets, while most of the pigeons huddled atop barns and billboards, basking in the bright rays but relatively low-level warmth of the late December sun.

Driving toward the Hunter

Driving east on Interstate 70 this evening, the sun set as I crossed from Colorado into Kansas.  Within another hour, beneath a clear sky, I found myself heading toward Orion, the Hunter, as it began to rise above the southeast horizon.  By the time I reached Hays, my overnight destination, this winter constellation was well above the horizon but the Hunter's faithful dog, Sirius (the brightest star from Earth) had not yet cleared the atmospheric ground haze and city lights.

Like almost all constellations in the night sky, Orion, with his belt and sword, is purely a product of our vantage point in the Universe; in fact, his component stars vary greatly in their distance from the Earth.  But the constellation's name is fitting, both for the configuration of its stars and the season during which it graces the night sky.  The Hunter will dominate the southern sky throughout the cold winter months of the Northern Hemisphere, a time when natural predators enjoy a distinct advantage.

The High Plains province of North America is certainly a great place for stargazing and, on this crystal-clear night, I stopped once to enjoy the spectacle.  There are no views more humbling from Planet Earth.

See also: Sirius and Omen in the Sky

A Cottontail Crash

When we first bought our Littleton, Colorado, farm, in 1990, there were no cottontails on the property; this was clearly related to the fact that red fox were denning beneath our barn.  Once coyotes killed or scared off the fox and I discouraged the coyotes from hanging around, cottontails reappeared and gradually reached a large (and somewhat destructive) population that peaked within the last couple of years.

Having been out of town for much of this fall, I returned last week to find that cottontails were nearly absent.  No signs of fox or coyote activity (e.g. scat) have been evident though red-tailed hawks and great-horned owls have always been regular visitors and recent sightings of a northern goshawk suggest it may be partly responsible.  The lack of complete carcasses seems to rule out disease and tufts of fur about the farm indicate that most of the cottontails have been victims of predation.

Since our small farm is one of only a few left in the area, it is a refuge for many species of native wildlife but also reflects the swings of population that occur related to changes in food availability, weather and predation.  Our resident cottontail population appears to have crashed.

Fox Squirrels 2, Goshawk 0

Looking out the kitchen window this morning, I was fortunate to observe the failed attack of a northern goshawk on two fox squirrels.  Zooming in at high speed, the raptor just missed his targets as they scurried to the other side of the tree and escaped into higher branches.  Taunting their enemy from above, the squirrels waited until the goshawk flew off before coming down.

Permanent mountain residents, northern goshawks occasionally turn up along the Front Range urban corridor during the colder months and, in recent years, have become more common (I should say less rare) on our Littleton farm.  Much larger than the Cooper's hawks that regularly hunt songbirds on our property, goshawks are also identified by a prominent white brow stripe that flares behind each eye.

Fierce, powerful and persistent in their search for prey, northern goshawks don't usually miss their target.  This morning, the squirrels were lucky (though skilled in their own right); no doubt, another squirrel or cottontail was not so fortunate.

See also: Death by Goshawk

Winds of Change

Those of us who live along the Front Range urban corridor are used to periods of intense, gusty winds, usually associated with approaching or retreating Pacific storm systems.  But these winds, descending from the Continental Divide, are dry; those from the southwest can produce a dramatic warmup while those from the northwest often bring a sudden chill to the region.

This afternoon, those winds are gusting from the northwest, reaching 40 mph in Metro Denver with higher speeds in the foothills.  As is always the case, they are produced by atmospheric pressure gradients across the Rockies.  Today, high pressure sits over the northern Great Basin while zones of low pressure have developed over the High Plains.  Clockwise winds around the high pressure dome are raking the mountains and the Front Range cities, sweeping cold air into the region and setting the stage for our next snowstorm, scheduled to arrive tomorrow evening.

Due to the dynamics of this developing system, the mountains may get up to 2 feet of snow while only a few inches are expected to fall in Metro Denver.  Of course, those dynamics could shift and the longer we are exposed to upsloping northeast winds, the more snow we will likely receive.  Farther east, where Gulf of Mexico and Atlantic moisture come into play, the snowfall will be greater across the Midwest and Northeastern U.S.

Our Search for Truth

While truth is absolute, our search for truth is fallible; we must rely on "state of the art" methods, whether they be scientific or investigative (e.g. those employed by law enforcement and journalists).

The very nature of these methods requires that we accept their fallibility and are willing to alter our conclusions based on new evidence.  Research, including trial and error studies, is the means that we employ to test our theories and, as our knowledge and technical skills advance, we come closer to the truth.

Mysticism, on the other hand, based solely on belief systems, is oblivious of truth.  Indeed, it is the major obstacle in our search for truth.  Facts matter.  Beliefs do not.

River of Ducks

Since the ponds and lakes in the South Platte Valley are at least partly frozen over, wintering waterfowl are congregating along the river.  As a result, they are easily observed (even without binoculars) from the adjacent hike/bike trail.

On this cool, cloudy day, mallards dominated the scene, joined by smaller numbers of green-winged teal, buffleheads, common goldeneyes, ring-necked ducks, gadwall, American wigeon and hooded mergansers; a couple of pied-billed grebes and a lone coot also fed on the river.  Multiple flocks of Canada geese and a small squadron of cackling geese flew overhead and the usual mix of winter songbirds moved through the cottonwood groves.  A red-tailed hawk was the only raptor to grace the scene and, despite the shallowness of the South Platte, no herons were observed.

This retreat to the South Platte will likely continue until late February or so when the lengthening days and higher sun angle take a toll on the frozen ponds.  By then, the earliest spring migrants will appear along the Front Range, just in time for our spring snowstorms.

Above the Upper Smoky Hill River

On my flight from Missouri to Colorado this morning, clouds obscured the landscape for most of the journey.  When they finally cleared, we were just north of a large reservoir that was oriented west to east; it was the Cedar Bluff Reservoir, southeast of WaKeeney, Kansas.

Created by a dam on the Smoky Hill River, the reservoir was established for irrigation purposes but is also home to Cedar Bluff State Park.  West (upstream) from this lake, the Smoky Hill River and its numerous tributaries have cut shallow canyons through a veneer of Tertiary sediments and into the Cretaceous chalk of western Kansas; the latter was deposited in a broad seaway that extended from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific Northwest some 100 million years ago.

As we entered Colorado, the uppermost tributaries of the Smoky Hill River gave way to tributaries of the Republican River (to the north) and the Arkansas River (to the south).  After passing over a cluster of reservoirs north of Lamar, our route curved NNW toward Denver and the snowy peaks of the Rockies (the Culebra Range, Spanish Peaks, Sangre de Cristo Range, Pike's Peak Massiff, Kenosha and Platte River Mountains, Mt. Evans Massif and the Continental Divide, south to north) gleamed in the bright morning sunshine.

More Bears than Birds

On this mild, cloudy afternoon in Columbia, Missouri, my wife and I took a walk around Perry Phillips Lake, south of town.  Despite the pleasant weather, I observed only a handful of bird species, all common, permanent residents.  Indeed, I saw more woolly bear caterpillars than birds.

These fuzzy, black and orange banded caterpillars, known to even casual observers of nature, are the larvae of Isabella tiger moths.  Emerging from eggs in summer, they spend the remaining mild-weather weeks feasting on a variety of plants; once winter threatens their survival, they search for a sheltered site beneath logs, rocks or leaf litter to hibernate.  Come spring, these caterpillars spin a cocoon and pupate, emerging as adult moths two weeks later.

Rumored to predict the severity of winter by their fuzziness or by the thickness of their central band, woolly bears are certainly among the last insects active in the fall and are sometimes observed crossing snow banks.  On this December afternoon, they were the dominant species of wildlife along the 1.4 mile trail loop.

Short-Circuit at Eagle Bluffs

On this bright, cool December morning, my grandson and I visited Eagle Bluffs Conservation Area, on the Missouri River floodplain.  Unfortunately, most of the refuge is closed for duck hunting but we enjoyed our brief circuit along the open roadways.

Sightings included a northern harrier, a bald eagle and a large flock of northern shovelers, among more common winter residents.  Crystal-clear air, an invigorating chill and dry roads made our visit especially appealing.

It will be February before the hunters depart but, by then, massive flocks of snow geese, white-fronted geese and American white pelicans will descend on the refuge, heralding the spring waterfowl migration which will last through April.  Hopefully, I'll have the opportunity to return to Eagle Bluffs for that annual spectacle.

A Night on the Ohio

On our journey back from Florida to Missouri, we spent the last night in Paducah, Kentucky, at the confluence of the Ohio and Tennessee Rivers.  In fact, our hotel room offered a sweeping view of the Ohio, where tugboats struggled to control their barge trains.

During our brief stay, we wandered through and dined in the historic section of downtown Paducah, where old buildings are being renovated to house shops, cafes and apartments; of interest, William Clark, of the Lewis & Clark Expedition, first platted this port city in 1827.  The National Quilt Museum, where we found that quilts can be fine art, is also located in Paducah.

Despite the cultural amenities of the city, the broad Ohio River was of primary interest to me.  After all, it was the river of my youth, having grown up and come of age in Cincinnati.  Rivers connect natural ecosystems and human cities; for some, they also connect us with our past.  A night on the Ohio proved to be a nostalgic experience.

For a bit of natural history, see: From Teays to Ohio

The Advantages of Heartache

Most of us have experienced a "broken heart" at least once during our life and know that its pain is long-lasting.  But there are, I believe, some advantages to having endured this universal trauma.

First of all, we learn a lot about ourselves in the course of a failed love affair and are able to use that knowledge when nurturing another relationship.  Secondly, personal pain fuels our capacity for empathy, allowing us to understand and comfort friends and family members when they have a similar experience and need our emotional support.  Finally, heartache and its sequelae have inspired much of the literature, music and artwork throughout human history; had we not endured the pain ourselves, we could not fully appreciate these cultural forms of expression.

This intellectual reasoning may be helpful in the long run but does little to diminish heartache for those in the midst of emotional turmoil.  Some say time will heal a broken heart but most of us discover that the wounds never fully heal and the pain never completely subsides.

Detour to Blue Highways

Leaving Longboat Key on this last day of the Thanksgiving weekend, we found that the northbound Interstate was clogged with vehicles.  After crawling along for an hour or so, we cut away from that ribbon of concrete to take a series of "blue highways," enjoying a more intimate look at the interior of the Florida Peninsula.

Blue Highways is a book by William Least Heat-Moon, who took less-traveled roads to explore the fabric of American life; at the time, those routes were colored blue in road atlases.  By doing so, Mr. Moon experienced landscapes, customs and interesting persons that would otherwise have gone unnoticed and unappreciated. I very much enjoyed reading his accounts and believe that, in a broader context, they offered valuable lessons for life.

Zooming along on our path to success or mired on the safe, congested road of efficiency, we often miss unique and exciting experiences.  Now and then, whether forced to do so by circumstance or invited to do so by opportunity, we are wise to take detours that enrich our lives.