An Angry Sky

Last evening, the cold front that had stalled across the Plains for the past week finally pushed into central Missouri. Ahead of this front, a massive black fin stretched across the western sky, its clean, rounded edge pointed to the south. Branched lightening flashed across this ominous cloud, which was backlit by the setting sun; needless to say, it was a striking and spooky scenario.

I witnessed this spectacle as I travelled to the grocery store and noticed that other drivers were peering at the sky as well. Though our region is used to severe thunderstorms, this event was bringing people from their homes, their cameras trained on the other-worldly sky. Fortunately, for Columbia, the storm passed to our south and we only received showers that developed in its wake.

Such natural spectacles help us understand how early human societies, devoid of scientific knowledge, imagined that angry gods were responsible for these fear-inducing storms. Though we can now explain the natural phenomena that trigger such turbulent skies, the fear persists and many are reluctant to dismiss the notion of a vindictive God.

Distant Mountains

A distant range of mountains, rising above flat terrain, is, for me, the most stirring landscape on our planet. While, as a naturalist, I realize that the majestic peaks may have once been a featureless seabed or plain, since crumpled skyward and sculpted by natural forces, they command admiration and respect during my brief lifespan.

To the traveler, the distant range may represent a destination or a milepost. It may promise adventure or warn of difficult passage. Depending on one's perspective, the towering mountains may offer an opportunity for exploration or trigger a sense of danger. Consulting maps, one may choose to head for the highest summits or plan a detour to avoid their treacherous slopes.

I suppose our reaction to distant mountains says a good deal about our approach to life. When obstacles loom in our path we can choose to face them directly or attempt to evade their difficult terrain. Those who refuse to veer from the course may either carelessly crash into their immovable wall or take the time to explore and understand their varied mysteries. Ramparts will always appear on the horizon and the course of our life is determined by how we choose to cross them.

Stepping Out

As an outdoors person with an indoor career, I make an effort to get outside at some time during the day. While my walks to and from work are vital to my mental and physical health, they are too purposeful to meet my need for a daily dose of nature.

Of course, my mid-day ventures are only so productive when it comes to wildlife; a group of sparrows in the parking lot, a flock of starlings on a college lawn or a couple vultures soaring overhead may be the limit of my encounter. Natural sounds might consist solely of the crunch beneath my feet, whether from fallen leaves or slushy snow, perhaps pierced by the calls of an arrogant jay. And the smells, sometimes mixed with the aroma of cafeteria food, may arise from fresh-cut grass, putrid mulch or a hedgerow of fragrant lilacs.

Not exactly a chance to immerse myself in wilderness, these brief journeys are, nevertheless, food for my soul. Just the warm sunshine, damp air or frigid wind is a welcome change from the stale, temperature-controlled, infection-laden, antiseptic-tainted environment of the hospital.... to say nothing of nature's role in stress reduction.

American Badgers

Other than those that cluster near Madison, Wisconsin, badgers are seldom encountered by the casual naturalist. Though they inhabit most of central and western North America, from southern Canada to northern Mexico, American badgers are primarily nocturnal and are solitary for most of the year. These mustelids, cousins of weasels, otters and wolverines, favor open grasslands and desert scrub; they are thus most common in semiarid prairie regions but may inhabit foothill meadows, glades and oak savannas.

Built low to the ground, badgers are powerful diggers, using their large foreclaws to excavate dens and to reach their prey; the latter consist primarily of ground squirrels, prairie dogs, gophers and other small mammals but may also include lizards, snakes, burrowing owls and large insects. Mating occurs in late summer or early autumn and, following a period of delayed implantation, a litter of 2-5 kits are born in early spring.

Young badgers may be taken by golden eagles, fox or coyotes but tough-minded adults are generally left alone (wolves or mountain lions may kill a few); of course, American badgers are also common victims along our concrete ribbons of death. Nevertheless, those that survive the first year of life often live for a decade or more.

From Drought to Deluge

After enduring a prolonged, severe drought, central Texas is under a flood watch as heavy rains have swept across the region for the past two days and are likely to continue for at least the next 24 hours. A stationary front bisects the country, from north to south, as the jet stream has taken a broad dip across the western U.S.; meanwhile, the eastern half of the country basks in summer-like weather under a ridge of high pressure.

This high pressure, centered over the northeast, is sweeping moisture from the Atlantic and Gulf of Mexico up against the cold front and areas just east of the front, from Texas to Nebraska, are receiving the copious cargo. While rain is welcome in the drought areas, this heavy precipitation is unfortunately arriving during the fall harvest, a time when dry weather is vital. In addition, the heavy rain is falling at a rate that cannot be absorbed by the hard, sun-baked earth, producing rapid run-off and subsequent flooding along stream channels.

Both the drought and the deluge have been produced by stationary weather patterns and it is not unusual that extreme weather events occur in sequence, one setting the stage for the other. Seasonal norms are merely averages based on long-term observations; a fickle jet stream or a stagnant zone of high pressure can, and often do, defy our expectations.

Return of the Hunter

For the past week, Orion the Hunter and his faithful dog Sirius have returned to the southern sky during the predawn hours. Their appearance heralds the culling season, when a deepening chill engulfs the landscape and predators gain the advantage. By mid winter, Orion and his companion will dominate the long, frigid nights and our survival skills will be tested.

For now, Orion shines from the mild morning darkness, lying in wait above the colorful fields and woodlands. We still have at least six weeks of glorious weather before winter takes control; the painted forest has yet to peak, waterfowl are just beginning to fill our wetlands and a new generation of wildlife has yet to experience the frost of autumn.

But the tide has turned and summer is slowly retreating to the south. The days are noticeably shorter, the evening chill comes earlier and hunters sense that their season is at hand. Nature's cycle is nearly complete.

The American Theocracy

As the presidential candidates battle for position over the coming year, they will be free to express their views on a wide range of issues; their opinions on medical care, bank regulation, environmental laws, unions, gay rights and a host of other topics will be considered by the public and, for the most part, respected. But when it comes to their religious faith, there is only one choice that is acceptable to most Americans and the candidates aim to please.

Despite the fact that, throughout human history, Christian factions have attempted to derail science and have been associated with a wide range of atrocities, from the Inquisition to child abuse, professing one's Christian faith is essential to attaining the highest office in America. Though Kennedy broke the Catholic barrier in 1960 and Obama erased the color line in 2008, Romney's Mormon roots are clearly compromising his position within the Republican field. Meanwhile, all candidates are falling over one another to declare their commitment to Christian values.

Most Americans despise Communist dictatorships and Muslim Theocracies in which personal freedoms are limited by the beliefs and philosophy of a small but powerful group of individuals. But, while we extole the freedoms of American society and claim to support the separation of Church and State, we are not free from the tyranny of organized religion. If one is not openly Christian or, worse yet, openly religious, the American presidency is but a pipe dream.

The Albertine Rift

The East African Rift is the southern end of a rift system that extends from the Jordan Valley of the Middle East to the coast of Mozambique. Active for the past 40 million years, the rift will eventually split the Continent, opening a sea between the primary land mass, to the west, and a smaller segment to the east. In east-central Africa, a 750 mile-long western branch of this rift system, known as the Albertine Rift, harbors a chain of lakes: from north to south, these are Lakes Albert, Edward, Kivu and Tanganyika.

The Albertine Rift is bordered by six mountain ranges along its corridor; the most famous are the Virunga Volcanoes, northeast of Lake Kivu, and the Rwenzori Mountains, NNE of Lake Edward. The Virungas, home to critically endangered mountain gorillas, lie on the border of Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC); capped by Mt. Karisimbi, 14,790 feet, the Virungas formed within the rift and are slowly moving to the east. The Rwenzori Mountains, along the border of DRC and Uganda, are a fault-block range that rose during the Pliocene (about 3 million years ago) and were sculpted by mountain glaciers during the Pleistocene; even today, this massive range of Precambrian rock, capped by Mt. Stanley (16,760 feet), has permanent snow fields in the heart of the tropics. The Rwenzoris lie at the west edge of the Albertine Rift and are gradually moving to the northwest.

Volcanoes National Park protects the Virungas within Rwanda while Rwenzori Mountains National Park lies just within Uganda; Virunga National Park, established in 1925 (the first in Africa), lies in the DRC and stretches along the Albertine Rift Valley between the Virungas and the Rwenzoris. Once home to a spectacular diversity of plant and animal life, these Parks are slowly recovering from the devastation of human conflict that occured throughout the late 20th Century.

The Elusive Ringtail

The ringtail, named for its bushy, banded tail, is a small, nocturnal omnivore of the western U.S. and northern Mexico. Extremely agile, these cousins of the raccoon favor semi-arid areas with rock outcrops and open woodlands; there they hunt small mammals, birds and lizards and seasonally feast on nuts and berries. Since they are active primarily at night, ringtails are seldom encountered by hikers and campers.

Though often called ringtail cats, due to their size and behavior, they are not felines; once domesticated by miners to control rodents, they are also known as miner cats. Ringtails are solitary for most of the year but pair off in late winter or early spring to mate; the litter of kits (usually 2-4) are born in late spring and stay with their mother through summer. Dens are usually placed in small caves or rock crevices but ringtails are superb climbers and often rest in trees.

Natural predators of ringtails include hawks, owls, coyotes, fox and bobcats. Those fortunate enough to escape these hunters often live 7-8 years in the wild and have been known to live 15 years or more in captivity.

October Woods

October is, in my opinion, the best month for hiking through forests of the American Heartland. Then again, in my opinion, it's the best month for just about anything.

The cool air, warm sun, colorful vegetation and relatively dry trails offer ideal hiking conditions. While most of our summer birds have departed for the south, winter residents, such as juncos, yellow-rumped warblers and white-throated sparrows, drift down from Canada, joining the cardinals, chickadees, titmice, nuthatches, woodpeckers and other permanant residents. The raucous jabber of blue jays now dominates the birdsong but the yank of the white-breasted nuthatch is perhaps most typical of the autumn woodland.

The seasonal chill also increases the activity of our resident mammals, making them more conspicuous among the colorful trees. The fragrance of fallen walnuts, at times mingled with that nostalgic scent of woodsmoke, drifts through the forest and the sound of acorns, dropping through the canopy, envelops the hiker. For the naturalist, these sights, sounds and smells of autumn are especially inviting and, reluctant to leave the October woods, his pace slows to an amble.

The Social Nature of Man

We humans are social creatures. Many, if not most, of us belong to groups or organizations related to our hobbies, business, profession, school, religion, political affiliation or some other aspect of our life. Much of this socialization is for enjoyment while our participation in other groups may stem from a sense of obligation or commitment.

Whatever the personal reasons for socializing, there seems to be an inherent tendency in humans to associate with one another; perhaps this stems from the earliest days of human history, when cooperative behavior was essential to the survival of our species. While practical reasons for group participation and networking persist today, the need to belong to cliques, clubs or organizations is also likely of psychological importance for many humans.

Then there are those, myself included, who enjoy solitude and prefer to interact with others as individuals or, at most, in small groups. Some might define this trait as antisocial and perhaps there is some truth to that assessment. On the other hand, privacy and personal freedom are often threatened when group mentality reigns supreme and meaningful, intimate dialogue is too often lost amidst the tweets and texting of modern society.

Thoughts on Lake Superior

True to its name, Lake Superior is a landscape of superlatives. Bounded by 3000 miles of shoreline, it is the largest freshwater lake (by surface area) on the planet; indeed, Lake Superior is roughly the size of Maine. While its volume is less than that of Lake Baikal, in Siberia, it holds more water than all of our other Great Lakes combined.

We humans, with our anthropomorphic tendencies, often view Lake Superior as a magnificent yet powerful beast, prone to punishing gales; in reality, it is a complex aquatic ecosystem, enclosed within a glacial basin of ancient rock. While the lake has significant effects on the climate of the lands that surround it, Superior's harsh weather is primarily a reflection of its latitude and longitude; were it in the southern U.S., its reputation would be entirely different. In addition, the character of Lake Superior varies with location, a reflection of prevailing winds, feeder streams and its underwater topography, and its shoreline encompasses a wide range of habitats, including dunes, rocky beaches, cliffs, wetlands and mountainous terrain.

To know Lake Superior is to understand its complex web of life, its geophysical anatomy, its geographic relationships and its susceptibility to the effects of human communities that line its basin; this, of course, would take a lifetime. Having traveled along its southern coast over the past two weeks, I have gained a better appreciation for the spectacular diversity of this vast and beautiful landscape.

A Change of Latitude

After almost two weeks in the cool, scenic landscape of northern Michigan, we are back in central Missouri. It is warmer here and the autumn colors are just beginning to unfold but the terrain is hardly spectacular.

Nevertheless, it is a glorious, sunny day in the Heartland and I opted for a visit to the Eagle Bluffs Conservation Area, southwest of town; stretching along the Missouri River floodplain, it is an excellent birding area during any season and offers a pleasant mix of wetlands, fields and riparian woods, backed by the forested bluffs of the river valley. Today, hundreds of turkey vultures dominated the scene, gathering on levees to await the mid morning thermals; killdeer were also abundant and there was the usual cast of great blue herons, blue-winged teal, red-winged blackbirds, bald eagles, northern harriers and migrant shorebirds. A special treat was provided by a trio of sandhill cranes that circled across the refuge.

Following vacations to areas with magnificent scenery, many of us are dismayed to return to our familiar and seemingly mundane surroundings. But, as naturalists know, every region of this planet offers a tremendous diversity of native plants and animals; unfortunately, most people never bother to explore that natural bounty. Today's visit to Eagle Bluffs reminded me that the opportunity to enjoy the wonders of nature is always close to home.

Elk in Michigan

North American wapiti, more commonly known as elk, are generally associated with mountainous regions of the West. However, before white settlers arrived with their guns, axes and plows, these large herbivores inhabited much of the Continent. Nevertheless, I was surprised to see "Elk Crossing" signs in the northern part of Michigan's Lower Peninsula during our recent visit and have since learned that this is the largest free roaming elk herd east of the Mississippi.

Elk were extirpated from Michigan by the late 1800s due to a combination of over-hunting and habitat loss. Then, during the second decade of the 20th Century, efforts were made to re-establish an elk population in the Pigeon River watershed of the northeast Lower Peninsula; despite some initial success, poaching and the degradation of habitat proved to be significant problems. Finally, through the cooperation of landowners, the general public and the Department of Natural Resources, the Michigan elk population began to stabilize in the 1970s and has recently been maintained between 800-900 wintering individuals; habitat restoration and a strictly controlled hunting program have been instrumental in this effort.

While the reintroduction of a native species is, in general, a laudable project, it cannot be successful without both adequate habitat protection and a reliable means of population control. Since the State has no plans to reintroduce gray wolves and cougars in this region, population control falls to human hunters. Indeed, one wonders whether hunting and tourism proponents were the driving force behind this elk reintroduction program. The public surely enjoys the opportunity to observe these magnificent animals in the wild but, for all practical purposes, the State of Michigan has created a regional hunting preserve.

Falling Water

As we left the cabin this morning, on our final day in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, a light rain was falling. The Porcupine Mountains were shrouded in fog as we headed west on the Park's South Boundary Road. We stopped to take a short loop hike in the morning mist, trudging along muddy paths and weaving through the soggy vegetation; two small but scenic waterfalls, Overlooked Falls and Greenstone Falls, rewarded our perseverance.

In the westernmost section of the Park, we hiked along the magnificent Presque Isle River, stopping to view its three major waterfalls and a cluster of rock-walled potholes, scoured out by the relentless river and its cargo of abrasive sand. From there we headed further west to the Black River Valley, in the Ottawa National Forest, where a family of five bald eagles endured the chilly drizzle in the top of a dead pine; another group of spectacular cascades were spaced along this stream and a beautiful crescent beach stretched northward along Lake Superior from the Black River Harbor.

Despite the gray, damp weather, it was another enjoyable day in this land of water and rock. Heading toward Iron Mountain on Route 2, we traversed a final assault of heavy rain before the clouds pushed to our south and brilliant sunshine ignited the painted autumn forests of the Upper Peninsula. Tomorrow we'll head for Madison, Wisconsin, my wife's college hangout.

The Precambrian Peninsula

The western third of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, including the Keweenaw Peninsula, does not lie within the Michigan Basin. Rather, from a geophysical point of view, it is part of the Wisconsin Dome, which also includes much of northern Wisconsin and northeast Minnesota; in this region, which blends with the Canadian Shield, Precambrian rocks outcrop at the surface since overlying, younger sediments were either scraped away by the Pleistocene glaciers or eroded away in the distant past due to the general uplift of these ancient basement rocks.

We decided to give our legs a rest today and took a road trip to Copper Harbor, stopping at various lighthouses and beaches along the way. The highlight of the trip was the view from Brockway Mountain, just outside Copper Harbor; from this summit, one enjoys a panorama of Lake Superior and the northern Keweenaw Peninsula, including the shipping lanes, the rocky shoreline, inland lakes and colorful, forested ridges. Wherever we stopped, outcrops of Precambrian rock, volcanic or continental, dominated the scene; along portions of the coast, hogbacks and shoals of ancient basalt created a fascinating and scenic topography.

As I discussed yesterday, the Porcupine Mountains are volcanic in origin, as are some other ridges and uplifts across the Wisconsin Dome. Other ranges, such as the Huron Mountains east of Keweenaw Bay, have eroded from localized Precambrian domes (similar to the formation of the Black Hills and Adirondacks). Of course, the highlands across the Wisconsin Dome are among the oldest in North America (1-3 billion years old) and, over time, have eroded into hills and relatively low ridges. Just knowing you are walking on or amidst rock that pre-dates terrestrial life is an exhilarating experience.

The Porcupine Mountains

About twenty miles west of the Keweenaw Peninsula, the Porcupine Mountains rise above the south shore of Lake Superior. Volcanic in origin, the "Porkies" formed 1 billion years ago along the Mid-Continent Rift; long quiescent, this rift extends southwestward into the Central Plains of the U.S. where, since buried by younger sediments, it remains a potential source for deep earthquakes.

Since their Precambrian birth, the Porcupine Mountains have been assaulted by the forces of erosion, especially during the Pleistocene Epoch when glaciers scoured the region. Today, an escarpment, capped by volcanic basalt, curves along the northern edge of the Porcupines, separated from the main uplift by the Big Carp Valley and its beautiful Lake of the Clouds; hikes along the escarpment are among the most scenic in the Park. Another popular hike is a short but steady climb to the top of Summit Mountain, 1958 feet (the highest point in the Porcupines), where a lookout tower offers a magnificent panorama of the Park and its surroundings, extending to Lake Superior; on a clear day, one can see the Apostle Islands (to the northwest) and Isle Royale, 80 miles to the north.

While the Porcupine Mountains formed 600 million years before life crawled from the sea, they now host a spectacular diversity of plant and animal residents. Among these are black bear, gray wolves, fishers and, of course, porcupines; so far, our mammal encounters have been limited to deer, squirrels, chipmunks and other humans. A Visitor Center, at the east entrance to this Michigan State Park, provides an excellent introduction to the region's natural and human history and access to this scenic refuge is provided by a well-engineered network of trails and boardwalks. Visitors should be aware that a Park passport fee is charged.

Roughing It

We'll be roughing it for the next three nights; well, not exactly. We have rented a fully furnished cabin on the south shore of Lake Superior, just a few miles east of the Porcupine Mountains. While I am an avid naturalist and enjoy outdoor exploration during any season, I'm past the age when the proposition of sleeping in a tent and cooking over a campfire is an appealing opportunity; after a day of hiking, I enjoy a hot shower and a comfortable bed. Besides, it's difficult to watch college football in a tent!

After leaving Munising enveloped in fog and drizzle, we made a brief circuit through Marquette and then headed west across another stretch of Michigan moose country; despite the highway warning signs, we did not encounter any of those large herbivores but did see plenty of white-tailed deer. Based on a recommendation in our travel guide, we headed for an isolated point between Keweenaw and Huron Bays; though our adventure required a long drive on a graveled road on this chilly, gray, blustery day, two other couples also turned up at that scenic location during our visit, a reminder that solitude is becoming a rare gift on planet Earth.

If we manage to survive the night in our not-so-rustic cabin, we plan to head to the Porcupine Mountains for a day of hiking tomorrow. Here's hoping that the central heating system wards off that chilly breeze from Lake Superior!