The Urban Naturalist

Pssst, Buddy -- Want a peanut?

Photo by The Urban Naturalist

A few weeks ago, I asked participants of my nature journaling class to spend the week until our next meeting answering this question: Where is nature in your neighborhood?

Nature sits in the tall, tall popular across the street.  It caws and cackles -- sometimes alone, but usually with a friend or two.  It is sleek and covered with coal-black feathers that shine blue and purple in the sunlight.

Crows.

For almost a month, have been trying to attract them to our front walk with a small pile of peanuts. Finally, a couple of weeks ago, I was successful. I was sitting in the living room reading the Sunday paper, when I heard the familiar, guttral "caw! caw!" This time, it sounded as if it was right outside the front door. I peeked through the window, and sure enough, there was a crow sitting on the wire that's suspended over our parking strip.

The bird (He? She?) was eyeing the peanuts and calling to two friends who hopped onto the grassy strip. One joined the crow on the wire as a watcher -- only from ground level -- while the third slowly walked toward the cache.

He/She took one, dispatched the shell in a couple of seconds, tossed the nut meat into the back of its throat and the called out to the two companions. In a matter of minutes, all the peanuts were gone.

But alas, I did not see them again. I put out peanuts out waited to no avail. Saturday night it snowed, covering the walks and yard with about three inches of dense fluff.  The neighbor was the first to get outside with shovel in hand, and he shoveled our walk.  I figured the peanuts were relegated to one of the small piles along the concrete.

But I couldn't find them. Not one. And that's when I saw the footprints cutting across the parking strip.  There was no mistaking that triangle-shaped footstep. My feathered friends -- one of them, at least -- had visited some time before dawn and made off with the bounty.

Late Sunday afternoon, I heard nature calling and cawing again from a towering box elder situated a few yards down the alley. I put out more peanuts.

And this morning, I am still waiting. They will come back. I just have to patient and vigilant. As Lyanda Lynn Haupt writes in "Crow Planet," we should wander our city as we do the forest: "ready to see."  And I am.

Holding on in hard times

  Photo by The Urban Naturalist

We hiked up a local canyon a few days ago to escape the summer heat and admire the waterfall at the top.  The rocky ascent gave shade, cool and respite as hoped.

Once at the top, I noticed sprays of the little yellow flowers pictured above jutting out from among the boulders.  If they had been birds, I might have some hope of knowing what they were.  But alas, this Urban Naturalist still calls plants by such names as, "those cute little purple ones," and "those little spiky yellow ones."

Still, I had to marvel at the tenacity of these little plants. They appeared so dainty and delicate until I realized the strength and stubbornness it must have taken to press up between those huge, unmoving rocks.

Over the past couple of years, many of my past business associates, friends and family members have struggled to weather the layoffs, housing crunch and general economic pitfalls that are challenging our country.  I have been planted in similar hard places.

Planted. It's an interesting word -- one that brings hope when I consider that little bunch of yellow flowers that bloomed in all their glory despite being wedged between the boulders.  Nature has so many wonderful and simple ways to show us how to endure the tough times.  We need only to take a hike or a walk around the neighborhood and pay attention.

In the eye of the beholder

(Photo by Doug Murray)

    Headed up to the local java haunt this morning for a cup of coffee and some friendly chat among friends who gather there.

    A few minutes into my visit, one of the regulars said, "Hey, you're the one who works at that nature center, right? Let me ask you something: Why do the magpies chase and kill the little songbirds in my back yard? They gang up on them."

    He was sincerely upset about the fact that these stunning black-white-navy birds appeared to be hard-core killers, preying gangland-style upon little birds such as the finch pictured above at one of our feeders. I listened as he went on passionately about how these treacherous magpies congregated in great groups in the trees around his home and didn't eat their kill right away.

   

(Photo from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology)

    After asking me a second time why these vicious magpies attacked other birds for seemingly no reason, the guy finally waited for an answer. Now, I haven't studied magpies exclusively, but I have been doing a lot of research lately on ravens and the Corvidae family to which ravens, crows, jays and magpies belong ("corvids").

    While each species has its peculiarities, some things are similar, such as the fact that all are omnivores. That means they eat a combination of plants and animals. For magpies, this means a lot of insects and seeds, along with eggs and fledglings of other bird species and the occasional small mammal or songbird.

    This information did little to satisfy my fellow coffee-drinker. "They're mean," he said in a tone that implied the conversation was over. But I didn't let it die. Corvids, I said, are among the smartest creatures on Earth -- smarter, some experts have said, than even the great apes. They can figure out problems and create tools. It is how they manage to fulfill their wide dietary requirements and thrive on every continent in the world.

    Magpies have even been recorded having "funerals" for fallen members of their species.  A magpie that spots one of its own dead calls to others, and soon a mass of them are in the trees overhead squawking as a few members of the group walk slowly around the dead bird. Probably, the ritual is one in which the birds are trying to figure out what danger lurks nearby and warn other magpies of the threat. It illustrates that these birds have a complex communication system.

    Still, people love to hate magpies. Less than 100 years ago, local governments offered bounties for dead magpies. In a 2005 interview with the show "Life on Earth," Kevin McGowan, of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, said that the hatred of magpies, ravens and crows likely dates back to early western Europe. The region is devoid of native vulture species, so corvids were the birds that ate carrion (the carcasses of dead animals). As a result, they were associated with death and disease, even though all they were doing was cleaning up after such things.

    In North American indigenous societies, corvids -- especially ravens -- have long been revered for their resourcefulness and intelligence. Ravens, in fact, figure prominently in many of these cultures' creation stories.

    Humans are funny when it comes to predators. Mention the term at your next dinner party, and people will think you're talking about a military weapon or a sicko who preys upon children. Both are human-centric meanings that add evil intent.

But for most of nature's predators, preying on other animals is a matter of food. The only intention is a full belly. Because of our culture's knee-jerk aversion to the idea that animals eat other animals, that is one of the most difficult lessons I have to teach children. It typically occurs when we are walking past the cage of one of our center's resident raptors just as the bird is pulling the head off of a dead quail, mouse or rabbit. I remind children that without the gifts these smaller animals have provided with their lives, the eagle or hawk in front of them would starve to death.

    A robin is a predator, as it eats earthworms. The American kestrel, our smallest falcon, is a predator that eats grasshoppers. No one weeps for the worms or the grasshoppers.  But we despise the polar bear for eating a baby seal or the mountain lion for taking a fawn. Many of us seem to be inclined to determine what animals should live based on whether we think they are pretty or cute. That is a perilous path to follow. Biodiversity requires all of Earth's creatures, pretty or not.

       My coffee colleague remained unwavering in his loathing of the magpies, even after learning that the birds may have been caching their kills for later -- a behavior they use when food is plentiful. He doesn't mind that the magpies need to eat. He just doesn't want them killing stuff where he can see it.  "It's mean," he said, projecting human emotions and ethics onto a bird that lives by different rules.

    I didn't have the heart to tell him that he'd be better off with a video than a bird feeder. When we choose to feed wildlife in our yards, we choose -- knowingly or not - to witness all that their lives encompass.

For the "Life on Earth" show about magpies, check out:

http://www.loe.org/shows/segments.htm?programID=05-P13-00021&segmentID=7

What's your hook?

  (Long-eared owl, Asio otus, spotted Jan. 1, 2010, at Antelope Island State Park)

We spotted this sleepyhead during one of the National Audubon Society's annual Christmas Bird Counts. He was among six long-eared owls found roosting in a tree along the edge of Utah's Great Salt Lake. Bill Fenimore, author, one of the West's premier birders and owner of Wild Bird Center of Layton, said long-eared owls are among those who roost in colonies in winter.

It was an amazing find. To get an idea of just how well these guys blend in, check out the "Reader Photos" album for a shot of two more long-eared owls, one of which is barely discernible.

Audubon's Christmas counts occur among local Audubon groups nationwide from Dec. 14 to Jan. 5. It is more than a tradition. It is citizen science at its best. These counts have been going on for 110 years, and are, as Fenimore notes, "the oldest continuous count of of any kind."

The first year was what people called a "side hunt." Basically, hunters went out on Christmas Day and accumulated "the biggest pile of fur and feathers" that they could, Fenimore said.

Not exactly the activity we engage in today, where teams of birders divide their regions into areas and count the number of each species they find. We are up with (actually, before) the sun and count for eight hours or more, depending on the size of the area, the number of counters, the weather and terrain. John Bellmon, another of the region's premier birders and a founder of the Wasatch Audubon Society, started the Ogden-area Christmas Bird Count 30 years ago.

As we milled about in the parking lot at the edge of the causeway that leads out to Antelope Island, I told Fenimore of our recent trip to Florida and the fact that I'd spotted a green heron -- my first.

"The green heron was my hook bird," Fenimore said. "What's your hook bird?"

A "hook bird," as the name suggests, is the one that is attributed for getting someone hooked on birding.

And I am not sure I have one.

Maybe it is the rough-legged hawk, a magnificent winter visitor in the Intermountain West that, when viewed as it soars overhead, has black wing spots and dark belly band that look like a flying smiley face.

Maybe it is the sandhill crane, which I first saw some 20 years ago congregating in huge flocks as I pedaled my bicycle past fallow strawberry fields in central Florida on Saturday mornings. Maybe it should be the western meadowlark -- my "bike-ride bird" -- whose melodious has call provided the soundtrack for every bicycle ride I have loved out West.

Maybe it is the Clark's Nutcracker, which I first identified on my own as I hiked up Deep Canyon in Utah's Wellsville Mountains some 10 years ago. The hike led to an 8,000-foot ridge with a near-360-degree view of Cache and Box Elder counties. Following the trail farther along the ridge line brought me to the spot where bird counters for HawkWatch International counted migrating raptors birds each fall.

Maybe it was the golden eagle I identified while sitting atop that ridge with HawkWatch.

More likely, however, it is some long-forgotten common bird such as a house sparrow or American robin that greeted me each day in the back yard when I was a child. For many of us, the relationships we hold with nature have evolved over time and, most likely, include many hooks. Crawdads, the apple trees in my front yard, the lilac and forsythia bushes in back and the wild strawberries and raspberries that my best pal Julie Frizzell and I picked as children in central Indiana are among my "hooks."

If you are inclined to make New Year's resolutions, then resolve to find at least one hook this year. If you have children in your life, make sure they come along. An adult who appreciates, understands, spends time with, and advocates on behalf of, nature starts with a child who collects hooks -- lightning bugs, rocks, perfect poking sticks, seashells, lists of bugs and birds.

Once you're hooked, you're hooked. My bird list is nearing 300, and there is a collection of rocks in a saucer in the living room and seashells gathering dust in the bathroom.

These boots are made for ... snow

This lone little teasel looks as though it was the center of an impromptu ring-around-a-rosy game of feather-footed friends.  And it is just the kind of sight that captivates and delights the children who attend field trips at the nature center where I teach.

The days on which we have the time to walk a little farther and linger a little longer along the snowy paths are the ones that the children -- and I -- like best.  there is no telling when an adolescent mule deer is going to step out from behind a tree or a family of California quail is going to skitter across the trail.

Truly, it is difficult to top a leisurely winter stroll on one of those afternoons when the sky is breathtaking blue and the snow sparkles in the sunlight. But nothing can ruin the outing faster than having frosty fingers or wet feet.

It never ceases to amaze me that children who live in homes with a computer, more than one television set and vast collections of DVDs and video games don't have a proper coat or boots to wear outside in winter. I can recall when back-to-school shopping started with seeing how last year's snow pants, coat and boots fit. once those were replaced, we bought all the other stuff.

Now, I see children come for a day of snow-walking wearing ballerina flats or canvas sneakers and cotton socks, a cotton hoodie and a pair of those thin, knitted gloves that come in a gazillion colors. All are very cute and practical for much of what today's children do -- play inside.  But as a combo for outdoor excursions they spell disaster.

Granted, snow clothes can be expensive, and children outgrow them. No one said they have to be brand-new. Thrift stores are a great place to buy sturdy, warm winter outerwear -- often in high-quality brands that cost less than a couple of movie tickets. 

If thrift stores aren't your gig (something you may want to re-consider, as buying second-hand is reducing, reusing and recycling), maybe you can create a co-op among your friends and neighbors. As the older kids outgrow their coats, they hand them down to the younger ones -- sort of like one, big happy family.  Have a back-to-school cookout where everyone brings last year's coats and boots and the kids mix, match and try on stuff.

Just because it's cold and snowy doesn't mean it's time to stay indoors.  The best way for children to learn about -- and learn to care about -- nature is to spend as much time exploring it as they can.  Getting them the right clothes to enjoy it is the easy part.

The harder part -- but the fun part -- is figuring out just who did make those tracks in the snow.

Making an impression

Quick! Name the leaves shown above.

If you said, "Pretty," it works for me. (They are mostly maple, for those you who simply have to know such things.)

For those who live in the Intermountain West -- or anyplace in which the leaves turn crimson, gold, bronze and orange in autumn -- fallen leaves are about the best part of the season.  They not only are brilliant and beautiful to behold, but they also smell pungent and clean and make a lovely crunching sound when you walk on them.

Now is the perfect time to take a walk and make something to remind you of autumn all year long.  When was the last time you made a leaf rubbing?  If your answer starts with "19..." then it has been far too long.

Grab some white paper -- that stuff from your printer will do -- a handful of your kids' crayons (Oh, all right. Take the children along, too), and head out to your back yard or favorite trail or park.  Collect a few leaves and start rubbing. Make designs by overlapping the leaves and using different colors. Put the date and location of the rubbing in a lower corner in neat print or script. 

Then laminate the results for some cool keepsakes. Rubbings on legal-size paper can become place mats. Rubbings on 3-by-3-inch sheets can be made into coasters or Christmas ornaments. Rubbings also can be done on Velum paper or similarly thin (but sturdy) paper, and affixed to blank note cards for some custom greeting cards for fall or even Christmas.

Of course, the best part about it is that you will be outdoors enjoying the crisp fall weather with your family and friends (the leaves). It only lasts a few weeks so don't wait.  The laundry, dishes, dusting and, yes, the raking will still be there when you get back.

When your best bird has prickles

I thought seeing 19 bald eagles would be the highlight of our bird-watching venture today -- until I saw the porcupines.

They are pictured above, resting in the thick limbs of a Russian olive tree. (I am aware that, from this perspective, they look like a couple of cheap wigs left over from a New Year's Eve bash gone awry. Next time, you get closer with the camera, and I'll watch.)

We spotted them while roaming Antelope Island State Park with the local Audubon Society for the last of this season's Christmas bird counts. Audubon groups across the country take to the fields, marshes and parks of their local communities throughout the month of December to identify and count birds.

It is based solely on volunteer birders whose abilities range from expert to beginner. So some would argue that it probably is not the most scientific tally available. But the surveys date back about 100 years in some regions, and, over time, that kind of information can indicate trends -- such as occurrences of rare species or changes in habitat and populations of common birds, which often are brought about by suburban sprawl and development.

Participating in these counts not only is a great way to learn more about birds, but also is a terrific way to spend some time outdoors with a purpose. The latter is very important, for the most wondrous sights on any hike or scenic walk are those we discover by accident while looking for something else.

For example, while searching for birds tucked in the towering cattails (good) and feathery phragmites (bad) that bordered a small pond today, we found tracks made by coyote, fox, small game birds and rabbits, along with the feathered remains of what looked to be a quail that had recently made someone a hearty lunch.

Oh, yeah -- and we saw a bunch of red-wing blackbirds and a couple of magpies.

But it was on our return trip that we stopped to gaze upon the porcupines sleeping in the olive tree. We were helping our party's leader look for a northern shrike, which he had hoped to see but hadn't. In focusing our gaze upon the trees along the side of the road, we saw what I thought were two large nests or balls of twigs and leaves. (As one who has mistaken about 300 clumps of leaves for birds in this season's counts, I was not about to say anything about these dark spots in the tree.)

"Those are porcupines," our fellow birder said. He and the other two people in our group waited patiently while I trudged through the snow to the edge of the gully where the olive tree stood and snapped a few pictures.

While I was shooting, guess what landed atop a nearby tree?

The northern shrike.

If that turn of events doesn't strike you as funny, the appearance of a porcupine certainly would. One of them raised its head momentarily revealing a creature that looks as if Tina Turner's hair stylist had a hand in its creation.

Porcupines are plant-eaters (herbivores) that sleep in rocky or brushy dens on the ground or sleep in trees. The choice depends on the amount of cover available on the ground and the number of predators in the area.

In the Great Basin region that encompasses Utah and Nevada, porcupines often take refuge in trees. Given the number of coyote and fox tracks I saw today, I cannot blame these two for choosing the penthouse option. According to other members of our group porcupines are a common sight during the Christmas counts.

I suppose "common" depends on one's point of view. As we emerged from a cattail forest earlier that day, one of the new birders asked me, "What's the rarest bird you've ever seen?"

Tough question. My so-called "life list" names fewer than 200 species, none of which are particularly rare. For me, "rare" can mean I recall seeing it once before and can identify it. "Rare" also describes what birds were doing when I saw them -- such as the pair of bald eagle parents teaching their youngster how to hunt in a secluded cove in Grand Teton National Park late last summer.

"What's the rarest bird you've ever seen?" If he had asked me 35 minutes later I could have told him.

Porcupines.