birds

Findings


I'd like to tell you what kind of Oak this impressive bark belongs to, but in age, among oaks, it is a challenge without leaves. No matter, this old, large oak is anchored near a clearing made by wind of storms and pressure of fungus and disease.



On the bark of a giant that had fallen last summer, I place garlic mustard just pulled. I keep it off the soil so that it properly desiccates, a lesson learned a year ago. Now committed to the project of eradicating the weed, I think of it as gardening, a task with its own time, that I can accomplish while out photographing the woods, searching for mushrooms or ramps, or completing some other woodland project. Away from fallen logs or large stones, I make piles so the mustard remains obvious to me later, as I check on its desiccation or dispose of it. Officially known as Garlic Mustard, Alliaria petiolata, I've pulled enough acreage of it now to refer to it as "skunk mustard," because its garlic-onion odor reminds me more of that mammal's funk. Click here for a concise and useful journal article on all things problematic with garlic mustard in North America.



This upland spot was (still is?) an oak and sedge stronghold for quite some time. Now cleared of its main shade oak, what may grow in these changed conditions? Its slopes are partially covered with Pennsylvania Sedge, Carex pensylvanica, and some Virginia Waterleaf, Hydrophyllum virginianum. I found these native strawberries, Fragaria virginiana growing in patches, too. A straight line trail runs through this location, with plenty of soil disturbance from quadrupedal hooves and nosing through leaves and soil for food. Maybe I could intervene beyond pulling weeds by giving some complementary plant a foothold. We tend to avoid plants consumed by deer and in this way we consume them by exclusion.



While pulling skunk mustard I stumbled upon this snake, a common Eastern Garter, Thamnophis sirtalis. Its reaction to my sudden presence was no reaction at all.



As I continued to hover, pushing my fingers into the dried leaves to pinch-grab below the prostrate brassica stems, concern took over. I let it be, moving on around a tree to grab more mustard.



Then I spotted two more, one with coloration slightly dull compared to the other, sunning themselves near their burrow. My leaf rustling was too much antagonism and the one to the right took off. Minnesota isn't known for its snakes, although I am happy to see them here in our woods. Along with our frogs and salamanders, they are an important indicator of the land's well-being.



It's been very dry so far this spring (and despite constant snow cover, the winter was short on snow). In our new climate reality, we anticipate extended dry periods along with excessive rains from thunderstorms. Because of the lack of runoff from non existant spring rains, I was able to navigate the entire small wetland, plodding across acres of dried, sun-bleached naples yellow grasses. I witnessed the garlic mustard making inroads into the wetland as well as an arm or two of Creeping Charlie, Glechoma hederacea. I also spotted considerable patches of Stinging Nettle, Urtica dioica growing among the garlic mustard, but also several feet farther into the wetland. There is a tree, likely an ash, rooted at the edge of the wetland but fallen into it that has continued to send up branches along its trunk. Under the tree's crown there is a muddy circle where only the plants, above, are growing. At first glance I thought "Marsh Marigold?" Maybe not. Thoughts?

I did make a soggy-footed attempt into the great wetland on the south side. I wanted to see the willows -the first pale greening of spring, up close, but I didn't make it far enough in to be truly rewarded. Underneath those grasses were channels and ponds of water still draining from a much larger supply of slopes than the little wetland to the north. I did see evidence of Swamp Milkweed, Asclepias incarnata, about twenty five feet from the wood's edge. The exploration of the wetlands, our sunny places, compels me to engineer a boardwalk (literally -cut logs, debarked and placed longitudinally, with boards run lengthwise between them). Future projects.



Closer to the house, on the dry slopes bloom Bloodroot, Sanguinaria canadensis. Maybe these can be planted in the clearing among the wild strawberries?



There have been many sightings of hawks, vultures, eagles, sandhill cranes, turkeys of course, and others to make seeing the more common birds seem, well, common. Yet the first robin of spring was worth pausing for, as well as bluejays and cardinals hanging together.



And while squirrels aren't on anyone's favorites list, they have yet to cause us any trouble, likely because their habitat is still largely intact. They do not come toward the house and didn't mess with last year's garden. This bounding fellow has a red head, feet, and tail. I wonder if it this one, from last fall, or a relative.




Morning Flock


One cloudy, and warm (for Minnesota), morning a flock of Cedar Waxwings appeared, alighting on a small ironwood tree just outside the window. Windows and screens make for difficult photographic filters, but I managed to salvage what you see here.




Downstairs Upstairs


The other day, while in the studio, I spied this large raptor up in the tree overlooking the little, north wetland.



I had to run downstairs to get my camera and zoom lens, then up to the attic to attempt a shot.



 But nobody likes to hold a pose for too long.



Autumn Creature Feature


This is the best view we could get of a Wood Duck that inhabited the back pond (I don't know what else to call it now, it's beginning to suggest permanent). About two months ago the ducks began congregating, yet I was so busy I didn't realize what was happening. A few weeks later, while felling trees, we noticed on the ridge a steady stream of walking ducks. It went on for minutes, there must have been one hundred! They are extremely skittish and do not let you get close, but I had been listening to their squeaky swing set sound for weeks. It wasn't until the parade that I understood we had a large congregation. One day, a week or so ago, they began flying over the house, rounding back to land on the lawn. Then they were gone.



Last year I did my best to save the frogs from what I thought was a frog trap. But now I'm beginning to think they want to be in this pit -the soil cut and retained around our basement, code required, egress window. I count at least thirteen in this portion of the pit, but there are more. You may also see the blue-spotted salamander to the left of the blue, roofer's trash. Next summer this pit will be excavated, probably retained with a galvanized steel, and a new, rot-proof, egress window installed. What will happen to this amphibian paradise?



Apparently, in autumn, the best house painting days are also the best days for lady bugs to seek out their death chamber. By the thousands on a warm, breezy day, a couple of weeks back, they swarmed the house. On their backs, stuck to the paint I eagerly applied, they became such a nuisance I had to quit. Several left defensive trails, "reflex bleeding" as it is known, on the paint that had dried. Once in the house they strive for light, which tends to be the light fixtures on at night. Look up at the plastic lens to see all the dark splotches of recently passed Coccinellidae. Don't bother cleaning it until winter sets in. They are stubborn too. When you try to coax them into your hand or onto a piece of paper they hunker down or, just as frequently, as they climb walls and windows, they simply drop to the floor, sometimes spreading wings to fly to another location. While gardeners love ladybugs, I have entered a new relationship to them that is, well, a little bit more complicated, and I well-learned not to paint the house after labor day.



Squirrels. This one had no idea I was standing there, silently waiting for Wood Ducks to come by. They didn't. Look at how auburn it is -for a gray squirrel. The posture resembles a man in a Godzilla suit, and by most people's reactions to them, squirrels may as well be Godzilla. Me? I still like them, they do not bother us or the house, we don't feed birds so I have no self-interested reason to despise them, and I'm pretty sure they're having more fun in the woods than any other animal. There is one thing I have learned. I always thought it was squirrels dropping all those acorns in the back yard. It's not. Bluejays. Autumn is the season of bluejays. They knock the acorns down and then do their level best to stuff them in their mouths, then fly away to stash them. Even though I grew up in an oak forested area where gray squirrels and bluejays were the most common animals, I never recognized this behavior until this autumn.




Woodpecker Pie


Like most kids of my generation, my first involvement with any woodpecker, let alone a Pileated, was through Woody Woodpecker cartoons. It took moving here to recognize that the jungle call I had heard during every summer visit was coming from this bird. Although about to leave and running late, the rare close-to-the-ground sighting required a quick photo.



Inside this woodpecker stump (or some other such name for the bottom twelve feet of a felled Red Oak left behind for wildlife) an agglomeration of carpenter ants. This tasty cache left the bird so focused that I was able to get close enough for a shot without any zoom -a rare moment, indeed.


The Scarlet


Our neighbor, a Pennslyvanian by birth with farmer cred and a seasoned Three Rivers Parks employee, mentioned a few month's back that our woods was the only woods in the area where he had seen a Scarlet Tanager, Piranga olivacea. I took note. 


Now that spring has long past us, we've taken to having coffee on the screened, back porch in the morning. Much to our surprise, and with great luck, the scarlet bird flitted onto the old bird feeder, derelict as it is near the red oak that once supported it. I learned early on not to sit with a camera for just these surprises as I may not accomplish much else. Unlike many of the creatures that surprise us here, the tanager didn't flee, even as I pried open the swollen stuck screen door to take his picture. 


My compact Olympus quickly came to life for a few shots as the Tanager ascended to safer heights. Although perched rather distant for a limited zoom and small sensor, it is evidence enough. 



The black wing contrasts well with the brilliant red body, possibly one of the most stunningly colored birds of the Eastern Forest. Our visitor stayed in the surrounding trees long enough to clue us into his call, a blurred chirrup that sounds a bit like a coarse robin's call. 



Now we'll know when they are in town, by sound if not by sight. The Scarlet Tanager visits only for the breeding season, for which the male erupts into scarlet feathers, then shifts back into an olive and black coloration, something more suitable, maybe, for a winter in South America.





The Bad Bath

We're not much for bird baths and although usually filled with rain water, I can't say I've ever seen a bird washing up. I'm going to hazard the assumption that bird baths are a thing out of drier climates. Out of place here and with a swath of moss removed to plant ferns given to us by our neighbor, I reinvented the bath as dish of moss.




Bard Of The Woods

We become aware of birds by sound.

The Barred Owl, Strix varia, amongst the trees just south of the small wetland. Perfectly blended with the contrasty shadows and light of the cool season forest -elusive by design.


This owl, flying just overhead, eyed my friend and I as we maneuvered the 24 foot moving truck through the woods out to the road in the midst of a snow squall. He said it was his first owl sighting. The owl probably thought, new humans. Although it has no difficulty floating amongst the tangle of branches, I've spotted the owl using the drive as a flyway. The Barred Owl is at home in the woods, mid-canopy, and by my observation, never high up in the trees. It is rare to see the owl in situ, only shadowy, swooping, grey glimpses, if at all.


There are two in the woods, probably nest mates, that I hear calling to each other at night. Their call, Who looks for you. Who looks for yoooahahah, is a soulful incantation. Not long ago, I saw them swooping together.



No Respect


No one respects squirrels, except for the oaks, maybe, if that's possible. Certainly the hawk does not. The sound of a thousand paper shufflers dominate the woods through the golden hours. So much work before quitting time for the poor, lowly squirrel, but no one respects paper shufflers. Like a boss, the hawk swoops in below the treetops, gliding above the wetland, and issues its battle screech. Every busy body freezes into a terrific silence. No intention of coming in for the kill, it then climbs out of the basin, heading for preferred hunting grounds, snickering likely.



Feeling Lucky, Bud?



Above the groundwater ponding in the middle swale (there's two, you see) are rather tall trees, maples and basswood, mostly. I don't think I need to point out that it is still winter, technically anyways, but the maples above the water are budding. Yesterday a great wedge of Canada Geese flew overhead, actually making their way to Canada, on strong southerly winds. Does everything know something I do not? I'm hardly ready for spring, as always I want to hold onto the slow pace of winter for just a bit longer, get some last thing settled before the rush of warm weather busy-ness.



What do you think? I think the maples crazy, but then I saw the very same thing at the ever so slightly warmer Mississippi River yesterday evening. Did I mention there are two months, sixty days, until last freeze? Is this how spring always is in the Big Woods? Probably not. After all, we went from negative eleven degrees last Thursday to over fifty or sixty degrees each day this week! What could be holding the plants back? I can hardly blame the maples for not holding it in, but they may just make a mess of sap season.



In other news, I have been keeping my eyes on the exposed groundwater in the back swale. There is still ice, with plenty of water on top. The frost heaved muck makes for treacherous travel where giant air pockets sit waiting for a boot to suck on. And then there's the duckweed. It's already growing. Yes, a week after subzero temperatures, boom, chlorophyll, CO2 and everything. 



Of course, duckweed, Lemna spp., is a fascinating plant. Not only are there many species, they can be hard to identify. I'm not fanatical about this, but this guy is if you're up for it. All we really need to know is this: duckweed likes still water, sun, and a boatload of nutrients. If you've got duckweed, you got those. What I want to know is from where the nutrient load is coming. Is it inherent to the organic material decaying in the back swale or is it running off from, say (don't mean to gross you out) a few upslope septic systems? Small point, really, and I don't have an answer, may never.



 And finally, the elusive Pileated Woodpecker tap tap tapping away, before the sun came up.



Peckers Gonna Peck


The Red Bellied Woodpecker, Melanerpes carolinus. Often heard, but never seen, peckin away at the house trim. 'Nuff rotten wood out in the woods, you should give it a try sometime.



I's just tryin get a good look atcha.


Peckers Gonna Peck


The Red Bellied Woodpecker, Melanerpes carolinus. Often heard, but never seen, peckin away at the house trim. 'Nuff rotten wood out in the woods, you should give it a try sometime.



I's just tryin get a good look atcha.


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On March 1, 2015 I will discontinue posting on NYCGarden. You can continue to read my posts here.


The Country Mouse

Two weeks ago I destroyed a home.
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As I freed the old mower from the earth's icy clutches, two mice sprung out and bounded through the snow like miniature gazelles. It was a scene out of a children's story. They headed for the next mower, and then the next. I became the giant, hell-bent on recycling metal, tearing off plastic, draining molasses-like fluids in subzero temperatures. Fe fi fo fum, rrraurrgh! The two mice, hearts pounding 700 beats per minute, finally climbed a tree, pausing with wonder -who, what, is this monster?

But I am a sensitive monster, you know the kind, like Bumbles. After finding one of my large terra cotta pots had broken, I brought the clay round to the mower-shaped leaf and acorn patch in the snow and fashioned a structure roofed with a round basket. I do not know if they have returned, and hesitate to investigate lest the monster return. Yet, come spring, I will remove the hastily made structure.


There are mice, like the one above, in the garage and occasionally in the basement. Rex had stored innumerable things friendly to the woodland mice and we have been disposing of much of that. I like all the animals, but I do not want to compete with mice, they've all the dark hours to find ways into things and unlike the ordinary House Mouse, Deer Mouse Peromyscus maniculatus and the White-Footed Mouse Peromyscus leucopus do harbor certain diseases (Lyme, Hanta) that are rather off-putting.

Meanwhile, the garage is a safe place for them, away from the half-mile focus of Red-tailed Hawks, the nightly snacking of Coyotes and the occasional Red Fox, or any other predators that find mice a tasty morsel. And then, inside, there is the aging but agile hunter, one who is steadily gaining confidence in her new, larger queendom.


The Town Mouse and The Country Mouse, one of Aesop's Fables


Final Touch



I hadn't been to the beach farm in two months. It was hard to go, out of busyness as much as emotion, but it was time, or rather time was running low, so this past Sunday, blustery, cool, and unfavorable to contemplation as it was, I went.



The buckwheat never got turned under which, in retrospect, appears a good practice given no other fall planting. The tangle of light carbon comes to be an effective mulch, keeping down weeds and shielding the soil from eroding winds. It should be turned under next spring.



In our other, short-lived plot, the unharvested fennel bulbs died back from frost and have since re-animated. I let them be.



Just down the row, under the blackened skeletons of tomato vine, speckled romaine has sprouted. The spring romaine must have successfully self-seeded, something I have yet to see in any lettuce I've sown.



Adjacent to graying, dry fennel stalks and the soggy flesh of decayed eggplant, our parsley is embracing a return to normal temperatures. I pinched some.



From the shed I collected some belongings, a bin, two types of spreaders. I left my wheel dib prototype hanging along with rarely-used garden tools and Wolf's jug of wine.




On this last visit to the beach farm, I was visited by what I think is a young eagle. I missed and will miss the autumn congregation of migratory birds and their electric cacophony. 



Finally, the beach farm was a great place to bbq with friends. I think this post by Marie, of 66sqft, brings it home. We had some great neighbor gardeners -Jimmy, Wolf, Joanna and others. They'll water your garden when you are away, rib you for your weeds, then offer you a cold beer, and they always took heed of my experiments and that is how I earned the nickname: the professor.


Two plots available. I recommend F12.




The Golden Gooser



I've seen this vehicle around lately, in Prospect Park and Central Park. 

There's a secret war on the geese of New York. He rides in his kayak, and it looks innocuous enough, but it's all about getting the goose.  From whom, exactly, is the pressure coming to extinguish the geese? What is the cost of the man in the kayak versus the cost of leaving the geese in the parks in a time of smaller Parks budgets? Why do we need a 'specialist?' To detach officials from the unpopular destruction of geese? By the way, it has little to do with airplanes -no goose has been gotten at Gateway, where we watch low-flying planes take off every other minute.

Are the birds are striking back? Did you hear of the kayaking gooser that was retired by a swan? Maybe the swans think they're next.


Early Bird



This morning, while stepping out to move our vehicle, I noticed a group of house sparrows, fat as they are around here, fluttering about the shrub rose. I can't recall ever seeing any birds in the garden, so I thought it odd.

Keeping to the driver's seat, I then watched them move over to the New Dawn climber, this time pecking at the tips of newly formed rose buds. Aphids, of course. But why would these birds suddenly be taking an interest in aphids? They are always there, but again, I have yet to see any local birds care to be about these thorny bushes.

Then it hit me. They, the proverbial canary, are reacting to the utter lack of water in the neighborhood. Aphids are, not unlike last summer's tomatoes in that nasty hot and dry spell, a water source in times of scarcity.

We are in the midst of a garden drought -my coinage for drought conditions gardeners face when it doesn't seriously rain for such an extended period that we become deeply concerned yet the greater population has not begun to notice. With such glorious sunny days and full reservoirs, what's to notice? But a gardener's drought is often a farmers' drought, becoming a local foodie drought. And we wouldn't want that. So, even though no significant rain is forecast for the next ten days, I for one am hoping that forecast is mistaken.

Sparrows doing their good work.



For The Birds


There is a rental dispute among what appears to be three species of birds above our side yard. They have pecked holes in the sill of the neighbors apartment. Now 6 birds are fighting with bedding materials in their mouths. I think the starling will win for size, but the house sparrows are pretty rambunctious. Meanwhile there sits a completely empty birdhouse just beneath them.