The Tea Party Agenda

Having closed the U.S. government with the expressed purpose of dismantling the Affordable Care Act, Tea Party Republicans lost that battle but it seems that this was just their opening salvo against the President and the Federal Government.  If given the opportunity, they will curtail support for Medicare, Medicaid and Social Security, close the Department of Education, abolish the Environmental Protection Agency and repeal the Civil Rights Act.

In effect, they want to be left alone in their white, Christian communities, free of Federal regulation and intervention.  Under such circumstances, they can outlaw abortion, teach creationism, block immigration, expand gun rights, enact exclusive voting laws and reinstate discrimination against women, blacks and gays (among other groups).  Reviving the simple life of the 1950s, they will bask in the glory of their Cold War mentality.

The Tea Party Agenda seeks freedom through intolerance and exclusion.  Demonstrating little concern for the rights and welfare of other segments of American society, they push their demands by declaring war on the progress that we have made over the past half Century.  Should they gain traction, minority rights, scientific education, conservation programs, international relationships and the U.S. economy will all suffer the consequences.  As a naturalist, a physician, a father and a grandfather, I hope that their influence will soon fade from the political landscape.

Hiking through a Sea Bed

Yesterday, my wife and I visited Three Creeks Conservation Area, south of Columbia, where three streams converge, carving scenic gorges through the limestone bedrock of central Missouri.  Our two mile hike ran along and descended into the valley of Turkey Creek, following rocky trails, passing through limestone cliffs and negotiating the dry, boulder-strewn bed of the creek, where giant slump blocks have fallen from upper walls of the gorge.

All of the rocks that we stumbled across, climbed over or gazed at from below are Mississippian limestone, deposited in shallow seas some 330 million years ago.  As it accumulated beneath the seas, fern forests spread across much of the land, the first winged insects made their appearance and giant amphibians stalked extensive wetlands; reptiles, dinosaurs, birds and mammals had yet to inhabit the planet.  Compressed and compacted by younger sediments which have since eroded away, the soluble limestone is now riddled with caves, underground streams and sinkholes, channeling surface water to springs that emerge along the valley walls.

Too often, we humans hike through natural landscapes without giving thought to their natural history.  Many assume that they are products of God's creation, reflecting form and beauty that have been in place since day one.  Those who understand that modern landscapes are merely the present manifestation of 4.6 billion years of evolution have a deeper appreciation for what they observe and are more likely to commit themselves to their protection.  Hiking through an ancient sea bed, now adorned with a rich oak-hickory forest, offers plenty of inspiration.

The Giant Oarfish

The 18-foot specimen that washed up in Southern California this week was, by past accounts, of modest size for an adult giant oarfish; these deepwater residents of Temperate and Tropical oceans have been known to reach 50 feet in length, the longest bony fish on our planet.  Since they feed on krill, squid and small fish at depths of 100 to 3000 feet, giant oarfish are rarely encountered as active, living creatures and most of what we know about them has been gleaned from dead or dying specimens that wash onto beaches.

Most of the giant oarfish is comprised of a long, ribbon-like tail; a feathery dorsal fin runs atop the fish, from its head to the tip of its tail, and the portion atop its head lengthens to form a distinctive crest.  Vital organs of the oarfish are located near its head and the pair of long, oar-like pelvic fins are just behind its short pectoral fins.  Oarfish belong to the Order Lampridiformes, which split from other fish lines during the Cretaceous Period, some 100 million years ago, when Tyrannosaurus rex ruled the land.

The occasional appearance of these giant fish on our shores reminds us that we know very little about the ecology of deep ocean life zones and have only begun to study and document their strange and diverse fauna.  Since the function and welfare of Earth's many ecosystems are interdependent, we ignore the deep marine wilderness at our own peril.

The Cuyahoga River

The Cuyahoga River of northeastern Ohio rises as East and West Branches in the northeast corner of Geauga County, flows southwestward to Cuyahoga Falls and then angles NNW, emptying into Lake Erie at Cleveland.  One hundred miles in length, the Cuyahoga (which means "crooked" in the Iroquois language) drains a watershed of 812 square miles, including parts of six Ohio counties.

Famous for catching fire in June, 1969, when oily debris was apparently ignited by sparks from a freight train, the Cuyahoga has since been recovering from its era of industrial pollution.  Thanks to conservation organizations such as Friends of the Crooked River, small dams along the river are being removed, wetlands have been restored and studies are underway to scientifically investigate, monitor and restore the riverine ecosystem.  Designated an American Heritage River in 1998, the Cuyahoga is a post-glacial river, the course of which was determined by the last Pleistocene Glacier as it retreated from Ohio some 12,000 years ago.  The Upper Cuyahoga (above Lake Rockwell, northeast of Kent) flows through natural and agricultural habitat while most of the River's course between Cuyahoga Falls and Cleveland flows through Cuyahoga Valley National Park.

Having played a major role in spawning the Clean Water Act and other conservation initiatives, the Cuyahoga River has since become a symbol of what can be accomplished by groups dedicated to the welfare of rivers and other natural ecosystems.  Your financial support for and active participation in these conservation organizations is strongly encouraged (see the list in the right column of this Blog).

Wild Turkeys in Ohio

On our recent trips to Ohio, I observed a fair number of wild turkeys, most often feeding in fields at the edge of woodlands.  Their history in the Buckeye State is an excellent study in the relationship between humans and many native species of wildlife.

Abundant in Ohio before the arrival of European settlers, wild turkeys were extirpated from the State by 1904, the combined effect of deforestation and overhunting.  Reintroduction began in 1956, transferring flocks primarily from Kentucky, Missouri and West Virginia.  That program, in concert with hunting restrictions, has been highly successful and, according to the Ohio Department of Natural Resources, almost 200,000 wild turkeys now inhabit the State; found in all counties of Ohio, the population is primarily concentrated in the forested landscape of the Appalachian Plateau.

Turkey hunting was resumed in Ohio in 1966 and is now comprised of a State-wide spring season and a fall season that is currently limited to seven counties; the ODNR reports an annual harvest of about 20,000 turkeys while an unknown number are taken by coyotes, fox, bobcats, great-horned owls and hawks.  While habitat destruction surely played some role in the extirpation of turkeys from the State (as suburban sprawl may pose some threat today), the success of the reintroduction program suggests that overhunting was the primary cause of their decline.  Today, close monitoring of turkey populations and annual adjustments to hunting regulations should maintain a healthy concentration in the varied habitats of Ohio; of course, natural predator control complicates that balance and human hunting is now the primary means of keeping turkey populations in check.

Human Kindness

During periods of human conflict, whether between individuals, within governments or across the international landscape, man has looked for the answer to peaceful coexistence.  Various songs, poems and sermons have suggested that love is that answer but such a complex human emotion can rarely be applied to more than a handful of individuals beyond our immediate families.

Religious persons place emphasis on the healing power of faith, convinced that a uniformity of belief would mend our differences while political junkies invoke a variety of remedies, from rigid capitalism to universal socialism, relying on philanthropy or governmental mandates to appease the masses.

It seems to me that kindness is the key to resolving human conflict.  We do not have the capacity to love one another on a societal scale and cannot be coerced by religious or political philosophy to accept belief systems that, in fact, have their disparate roots in limited segments of human civilization.  Kindness, on the other hand, is a trait that we can all appreciate and project, regardless of our religious, political or cultural background; its expression reinforces our faith in humanity and, by fostering tolerance, serves to diminish the divisive nature of those social constructs.

October Fog at Eagle Bluffs

Arriving at Eagle Bluffs Conservation Area just after dawn, I was greeted by a dense fog that enveloped the Missouri River floodplain.  On my first loop through the preserve, I could barely make out the stately silhouettes of great blue herons and great egrets that rose amidst the shallows and, while I could hear their legions, the massive flocks of red-winged blackbirds were but dark shadows in the pea soup fog.

By 9 AM the fog was burning off and I watched skittish flocks of blue-winged teal as they moved among the wetlands.  More sedate flocks of American coot lined the marshy shores, a group of long-billed dowitchers probed the shallows and scattered flocks of pied-billed grebes dove for their breakfast in the deeper pools.  A dozen cormorants passed overhead, northern harriers strafed the meadows, belted kingfishers patrolled the channels and a lone osprey perched atop a dead snag, feasting on his morning catch.  Now visible in the bright sunshine, I spotted a couple of snowy egrets among their larger cousins and noticed a few green herons and black-crowned night herons along the shorelines.

The massive flocks of red-wings were even more impressive on the sunlit floodplain and squadrons of turkey vultures began to venture from their roosts to test the mid morning thermals.  In the full light of an October morning, there was no doubt that autumn had arrived in the Missouri River Valley; soon, the ponds and marshes of Eagle Bluffs, magnets to migrating waterfowl, will be covered with vocal congregations of ducks, swans and geese.

Death on the Journey

Walking through downtown Columbia this morning, I came across a dead Nashville warbler, lying on the sidewalk at the base of a building.  After spending its summer in woodlands of the Great Lakes region, this migrant was on his way to Mexico for the winter.  Unfortunately, illness or a traumatic impact ended that journey.

We humans often envy the freedom of birds, especially their ability to escape to warm, sunny climes for the winter months.  Of course, that freedom is not without risks, as this morning's discovery so clearly demonstrates; predators, physical obstacles, severe weather, polluted water, illness and starvation all take a toll.  While these factors tend to weed out the weak, sick and old from the migrant population, all of the seasonal travelers are potential victims.

Human travelers understand that certain risks accompany any journey.  Though our chance of injury or death is far less than that of avian migrants, we accept some risk in the pursuit of the rewards that travel affords, whether they be business opportunities, educational events, reunions or relaxing vacations.  The warbler's journey was purely instinctual but ours, including the journey of life itself, is undertaken with risks and rewards in mind.

Autumn Chill invades the Heartland

On the back side of a potent storm system that brought heavy snow to the Central Rockies and tornadic thunderstorms to the Northern Plains, chilly air, low gray clouds and intermittent showers invaded the Heartland yesterday.  After a morning low near 40 degrees F, the afternoon high topped out in the low fifties, some fifteen degrees below average.

At Little Dixie Lake Conservation Area, east of Columbia, the autumn chill invigorated the birdlife.  Blue jays, northern flickers and red-bellied woodpeckers dominated the chorus, joined by black-capped chickadees, tufted titmice and white-breasted nuthatches.  While migrant waterfowl have yet to arrive, noisy flocks of Canada geese moved about the lake and a lone bald eagle circled overhead.  Turkey vultures and red-tailed hawks sailed along on the northwest wind and wild turkeys stalked the woodlands, feasting on a large crop of acorns.

More like November than early October, the damp chill put an end to our extended summer weather and served notice that winter lurks just to our north.  Plenty of warm, sunny days lie ahead but the tide has turned and the flocks of autumn will soon fill our lakes and wetlands.  As if to confirm that fact, the scent of wood smoke drifted through our neighborhood last evening, a fragrance that, in my mind, evokes the images of snowy days and clear, cold winter nights.

Fish Pond for Vultures

The seasonal lake at our local nature preserve has retreated to a shallow pool and dead fish now break its surface, decaying in the autumn sun.  Their stench has attracted a large flock of turkey vultures, picking their way among the corpses or lounging on the mudflats, oblivious to the rancid fumes.

Indeed, the dry, sunny weather of autumn provides many of these feasts each year, a welcome addition to the vultures' regular diet of roadkill and leftovers.  We might be appalled by the appearance and habits of these large scavengers but they provide a valuable service, cleaning up the dead and recycling their carcasses.

Ironically, heavy rains moved into central Missouri yesterday.  While these autumn rains might temporarily swell the lake waters, the runoff will arrive too late for the fish.  Whatever remains after the vulture feast will be claimed by worms, beetles and other scavengers or will nourish the aquatic plants that appear next spring.

Basin & Range Atmosphere

Yesterday, the rolling farmlands of Ohio's Glaciated Plain were bathed in sunshine.  As we approached the Indiana line, however, a range of vapor stretched across the western horizon, its upper peaks gleaming in the bright morning sun.

Cutting through this wall, a torrent of rain drenched the car but we soon emerged into calm sunshine on its western edge.  There we saw other ranges to our north, south and west, all trending southwest to northeast and separated by pale blue skies.  This atmosphere of banded storms, rising ahead of a strong cold front, was reminiscent of the Basin and Range Province of the American West, where fault block ranges poke above the high desert.

While the Basin & Range topography was produced by tectonic forces from below (a process that continues today), yesterday's Midwestern scene resulted from turbulence above Earth's surface.  Ahead of the cold front, southwesterly winds pushed warm, humid air toward the Great Lakes and low pressure along the front provided lift, igniting bands of thunderstorms.

Autumn on a Kettle Lake

Sitting above the north shore of Sandy Lake, in northeast Ohio, there was a mix of summer and autumn yesterday afternoon.  The calm lake waters rippled with schools of minnows, a pair of ring-billed gulls circled overhead and the stately form of a great blue heron rose above a distant shoreline.  Summer-like warmth, carried on a southwest breeze, fueled thunderstorms that rumbled across the area.

Hinting of the seasonal change, splotches of autumn color adorned the lakeside woodlands while, just below my perch, eastern chipmunks scurried about, collecting acorns for their winter dens.  Across the lake, turkey vultures tilted in the southwest breeze and a lone red-tailed hawk surveyed the scene from a barren limb.

As a cold front moves in over the next few days, the summer-like conditions will yield to the cool, dry air more typical of October.  Migrant ospreys and waterfowl will visit the lake in the coming weeks and, in another month or so, bald eagles will settle in as ice begins to coat the shallows.  Created by a chunk of glacial ice that left a depression in the landscape, this kettle lake will then enjoy the gray, chilly weather that characterized its late Pleistocene birth.

In Memory of Helen

Like many (if not most) men, I was not overly close to my mother-in-law.  Nevertheless, she had a profound impact on my life, well beyond our family relationship.

When I first met Helen, in 1973, I was impressed by her devotion to and support for the work of conservation organizations; an avid birder and gardener, she was actively involved in regional programs and, sensing my own interest, began to send along gift subscriptions to the publications of national conservation organizations.  In 1974, she arranged for our visit to Ding Darling National Wildlife Refuge, on Sanibel Island, Florida, (my first exposure to the rich diversity of exotic, subtropical birdlife) and, in the same year, introduced me to the writings of Edwin Way Teale (beginning with his classic North with the Spring).  Later in life, I came to appreciate the prominent role that all of these events played in my development as a naturalist.

Helen died this week at the age of 96.  I thank her for her mentorship and inspiration and will honor her memory through my own devotion to the conservation ethic that she fostered in myself and others.  

The Milestones of Life

The recent hiatus in my blog was due to two significant events in my life: the marriage of my oldest daughter and the death of my mother-in-law.  While the former was joyous and the latter sad, both entailed a celebration of life, of dreams for the future and of memories from the past.

Such major events mark our lives, placing all other events and relationships in context.  They give us comfort, reinforce our bonds and remind us of both the beauty and the fragility of life itself.  Of course, they also illustrate our interdependence, placing emphasis on the importance of friends and relatives in our lives.

Though other creatures are not equipped to acknowledge these milestones, they share the same course of existence on this planet, from birth, to procreation to death.  Most of the biochemical processes that govern our thoughts, our emotions and our physiology are identical to those found in "lower species."  We are all products of an evolutionary stream that, on Earth, began 3.6 billion years ago; our participation may be brief but the rewards of life are countless.

Flocks of Franklins

Driving back to Missouri, yesterday, I saw several large flocks of Franklin's gulls feeding above the fields of central Kansas.  These small gulls nest in colonies on wetlands of the Northern Plains where they feed on a wide variety of plant and animal life, including seeds, insects, worms and mice.  Like grebes, they build their nests on floating mats of vegetation which must be continually reinforced until the chicks have fledged.

During migrations across the Great Plains, they are generally encountered in large flocks, cavorting above fields and pastures to feast on clouds of flying insects, often following plows and harvesters that stir up their prey.  En route, they also stage along the shores of lakes and reservoirs, joining migrant shorebirds, American white pelicans, white-faced ibis and a host of other gulls and terns.

By mid October they have usually moved south of the U.S., heading for wintering areas along the west coast of South America.  Come April, their flocks reappear on the Southern Plains where they stop to rest and fuel on their way to breeding grounds in central Canada and the north-central U.S.

Our Neighborhood Watch

It's been a busy week for our neighborhood watch.  Every morning, about ten o'clock or so, an intruder has invaded our Littleton, Colorado, farm and, within seconds, one of the security guards, adorned in his blue uniform, sounds the alarm.

Soon, the entire squadron is shrieking from adjacent trees and, once he's had enough, the intruder flees the scene; on most days it has been a sharp-shinned hawk but yesterday a large red-tail had settled in one of our elms.  The blue jays, self-appointed guardians of our three acre plot, fall silent once the danger has passed.

Aggressive, attentive and fearless, our resident jays are happy to provide the security service and ask for little in return; pinon nuts, berries, insects and feeder handouts keep them around and seem to be adequate payment for the protection.  Of course, other birds, mice and cottontails benefit from their behavior (except when the jays consume their offspring) and, as an avid birder, I appreciate knowing when raptors are paying a visit.  Blue jays may be bullies at feeders but their truculence has its rewards.

An Invasion of Clubtails

Clubtails seem to be everywhere on our Littleton farm this week.  These dragonflies, members of the family Gomphidae, are named for the bulge at the end on their long, narrow abdomen; in most species, the club is more prominent in males.  Clubtails are also identified by their clear wings and widely spaced eyes; the latter trait, combined with their thin torso, makes them resemble damselflies.

More than 900 species of clubtails have been identified worldwide and about 90 species are found in North America.  Most live along rivers and near ponds, where their nymphs burrow into the gravel or sediment of the stream floor or lake bottom; there they feed on the larvae of other aquatic insects and, in some species, may remain in the larval state for three years.  Molting to adults during the warmer months, clubtails are not strong fliers; rather, they flit from one perch to the next, snaring small insects en route.  Eggs are generally laid on aquatic vegetation but, in some species, may be deposited in mulch or leaf litter; in the latter case, the species may overwinter in the egg stage or the larvae may burrow into the rotting vegetation until they molt to adults in late spring or summer.

Our current invasion of clubtails will likely be short-lived.  The first freeze in Metro Denver generally occurs during the first week of October, putting an end to the lives of most adult insects; of course, exceptions do occur (honeybees, ladybird beetles and cave crickets are but a few examples).

Health Insurance & Young Adults

Among the groups that oppose the Affordable Care Act are young adults who resent the health insurance mandate.  They argue that their participation merely funds healthcare for the elderly since they, themselves, do not need expensive screening or medical therapies.

Unfortunately, that assumption is not always accurate.  Having practiced hospital medicine for most of my career, I cared for a large number of young adults who needed costly inpatient treatment.  In the majority of cases, their expensive hospitalization was related to accidents, malignancy or acute infections such as complicated pneumonia, meningitis and pyelonephritis.  Then there are medical problems that often present in early adulthood, such as type 1 diabetes, asthma, inflammatory bowel disease, lupus and schizophrenia, to name but a few.

To forego health insurance because one is "young and healthy" is to ignore the risk of a catastrophic injury or illness that may lead to financial disaster.  In many cases, such debt places the individual's family at risk as well; parents may exhaust their savings to provide assistance and the patient's spouse and children may become impoverished by the expenses of repeated hospitalizations, chemotherapy, rehabilitation and other treatments.  Indeed, financial planning must begin with the independence of early adulthood and obtaining health insurance should, in my opinion, take precedence over the purchase of a house and other investments.

Colorado's First Snow

While light snows may dust the higher peaks of Colorado during any month of the year, the latest cold front, which moved through the State over the past 24 hours, brought the first significant accumulations  to mountain areas above 11,000 feet.  In most locations, the snowfall was less than six inches and, as warmer temperatures return, much of that snow will melt or evaporate; nevertheless, on shaded, north-facing slopes and in protected cirques, this storm laid the foundation for the annual snowpack, which will build to a peak in early March.

The same storm brought a steady, light rain and scattered thunderstorms to the Front Range urban corridor, welcome precipitation in the southern parts of Metro Denver but unwelcome in the flooded areas north of the city.  According the NOAA, the average date for Denver's first snowfall is October 19 though, in my own experience, it may occur by early September; since moving to Colorado in 1982, I have also witnessed snow in the Metro area as late as early June.  Denver's heaviest snowstorms often occur in March and April, when Pacific storms move east across southern Colorado, sweeping Gulf of Mexico moisture toward the Front Range.

Here's hoping that the first mountain snows will usher in a heavy snowpack for the coming season and that gradual spring melting will fill our rivers and reservoirs without the specter of additional flooding;  nature, oblivious to our hopes and fears, will keep us guessing.  It is best that we make no assumptions, conserve her precious water and prepare for a wide range of possibilities.

The Nature of Democracy

Democracy, which protects the power of the individual, relies on a spirit of cooperation and compromise in order to thrive.  While various parties may disagree on a wide range of issues, their willingness to consider and respect one another's views is essential.  So too is a commitment to ensuring that all citizens have a voice in the policies and laws that are enacted.

As we have seen with the Arab Spring, democracy cannot take hold in regions where factions or sects hate one another and choose to settle differences or exact revenge by violent attacks.  Neither can democracy flourish in countries where a dictator, a military junta or a ruling class determines the rights of individuals.

The United States, the paragon of democracy, was once nearly torn apart by civil war.  Having survived that threat and its aftermath, we now face a political movement that refuses to compromise with other segments of our population; demonstrating a profound degree of disrespect, they are willing to disrupt the stability of our country to achieve their narrow-minded goals.  Intolerant of other views while offering no constructive solutions for the problems that we face, they imperil our democracy in pursuit of their own agenda.  Hopefully, democracy will prevail and their radical, self-righteous obstructionism will fade from the political landscape.

Eleven Mile Reservoir

Created by a dam on the South Platte River in 1932, Eleven Mile Reservoir lies in the southeast corner of Colorado's South Park.  Renowned for its fishing, most of the lake and the surrounding State Park stretch across flat, semiarid terrain while the reservoir's eastern end is lined by scenic granite outcrops at the base of the Puma Hills; indeed, some of the outcrops form islands in the reservoir.

Yesterday, my wife and I hiked the trail loops that run above the east shore of the lake, crossing Coyote Ridge and then winding through the hike-in campground on a peninsula of pine-fir-aspen woodlands and rock-walled coves.  It was there that we enjoyed a picnic lunch, looking north across the reservoir which is backed (east to west) by the distant walls of the Tarryall Mountains, the Continental Divide, the southern end of the Tenmile Range, the Mosquito Range and, west of the Arkansas Valley, the high spine of the Collegiate Range; to our southwest, the massive bulk of Thirtynine Mile Mountain rose above the lake.

While boats may crowd the reservoir during the summer months, only the occasional fishing craft distrurbed the natural chorus of grasshoppers, golden-mantled ground squirrels, magpies, Steller's jays, mountain chickadees and western grebes; the latter, lounging on the calm blue waters, were joined by ring-billed gulls and small groups of common mergansers.  The campgrounds, surely congested during the warmer months, were nearly empty as we hiked across the peninsula, reinforcing our conviction that off-season months are the best time to visit our National and State Parks.  Blue skies, cool air and an early hint of aspen gold made our visit even more enjoyable.

Memories of Canada

In September of 1973, I joined a group of friends for a canoe trip in Algonquin Provincial Park, in Ontario, Canada.  That was my first excursion to a wilderness area and my first trip to any region not on my family's limited vacation list (Lake Erie, the Smokies and the Gulf Coast of Florida).  After a week touring remote streams and lakes in the Park, a friend (see George) and I returned to Cincinnati via a long, scenic route, following the northern coast of Lake Huron, the southern coast of Lake Superior and the western coast of Lake Michigan.  En route, I was exposed to a spectacular diversity of landscape and wildlife and there is no doubt that the entire experience played a significant role in my development as a naturalist.

So too did our stop in Sudbury, where nickel mining had created a moonscape amidst the forests and lakes of Canada; never before had I encountered man's impact on natural ecosystems in such a striking and unsettling manner.  To this day, though the city has been recognized by conservation organizations for its effort to reclaim the landscape, that image of Sudbury comes to mind whenever the subject of human-induced habitat destruction is raised.

Indeed, a commitment to conservation generally arises from positive and negative experiences in our lives.  The exposure to pristine wilderness and scenic landscapes prompts our desire to protect those areas while the sight of polluted rivers, clear-cut forests and industrial carnage fuel our support for environmental regulations.  My trip to Canada, at the age of 23, did both.