Saturday, December 17, 2011



A few days ago, I had the luxury of a long walk without the toddler or the dogs. The forest has been stripped down to the bleakness of winter, which officially starts next week. Deceptively delicate featherings of moss claimed the unwanted surfaces – rocks and wood. Reproduction is always in progress somewhere. The fawns which are forming inside does represent high maternal investment, while the clusters of seeds held aloft awaiting their turn for dispersal are much cheaper.



Insects crawled and stumbled about in the sun-warmed leaf litter. The forest was still waiting for a festive carpet of snow to shield the forest floor and its occupants from the shifting weather and temperatures (today the air is dotted with snow, making a thin covering that’s rough with leaves and spiky grass).

Casual birding is a feast or famine enterprise depending on where the mixed feeding flocks are foraging or where the crows are congregating. My walk was without avian accompaniment, until I remembered that there are almost always a few patrons at the bird feeder next door. A fact not always lost on the nonhuman forest residents who are interested in song birds. Woodpecker and nuthatches hung back in the woods, while bolder chickadees shuttle back and forth through the yard. Then some titmice appear. To me, titmice suggest mini jays in attitude and headdress.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

In late fall and early spring I can almost convince myself that green is a shade of brown. Moss, ferns, and perennial plants abound, but the listless leaves of the latter two manage to suggest barely more life than the brittle goldenrods, now cast in bronze and topped with wool. Our evening walks sometimes spook turkeys from their roosts high in the trees. Heavy wing beats and crashing branches draw my eyes up for a glimpse of large bodies in silhouette. Day walks pause when the dogs notice the spectral gray squirrels floating up trunks in complete silence. When I walk without the dogs, I hear the squirrels cry and quarrel among themselves. Sporadic crow conventions convene in the back woods and add bleak vocals to the gray and brown scenery.

We’re in the midst of hunting season. The heavy fire days are holidays and weekends, but we’re always a little tense because of the ever present possibility of isolated shots. Not as tense as the deer. One morning we found bright blood splattered on brown leaves by the driveway, evidence of a wound which we assumed to be hunting related. The deer move more quietly than squirrels, and what we do see of them tends to be gray patches moving through thick curtains of intervening trunks.

This week I had a short time available to walk through a wildlife preserve with my camera. I rounded a corner to find two mother deer with their nearly-grown fawns grazing by the side of the path. With slow movements I took out my camera and stalked forward. After a few glances in my direction, most of the group resumed eating while one youngster fixed me with a picturesque gaze. I clicked – only to discover that my battery was dead. Frustrated at losing this opportunity which I knew would be near impossible on our land, I rushed back to the visitor center where I plugged the rechargeable batteries into a power outlet. For five minutes I hoped the deer hadn’t moved very far, given that my free-time was draining away. Then I grabbed all my gear and headed back out.

I shouldn’t have worried. The placid deer were now grazing right next to the building.

Friday, October 28, 2011



On a recent afternoon I enjoyed a peaceful interlude while the baby napped upstairs. I sat at the table and watched the backyard through the frame of the picture window. It was cold inside, but colder out, and everything felt slightly damp. It’s that time of year when a fire often seems overkill, but fortunately there are plenty of apples and pumpkins for baking to give the house a touch of warmth and spice.

Dampness darkened the colors outside. The understory glowed against the gray sky. Taller trees stood mostly bare, although a few canopies were still fleshed out. Sparse leaves quivered, sometimes breaking into a free-fall that attracted the eye. Similar movements resolved into birds, betrayed by speed or defiance of gravity.

After I watched for a while I realized the backyard was a busy place. A chipmunk ran across, posing for a second on the seat of an Adirondack chair. A red squirrel traveled in spurts up a tree trunk, its tail changing constantly from flat and calm to up and agitated. Suddenly it turned around and retreated for no obvious reason. Winter birds such as titmice and jays moved among the branches. A golden-crowned kinglet flitted among spent goldenrods, its flash of yellow like a visible comment. At the table I was surrounded by house noises. Propane bubbled in the workings of the refrigerator. The house spoke in a low hum like silence given voice, interrupted by one of our cats purring contentedly as she tried to either obstruct my view or step on my writing. Outside I knew I would hear the jays calling, crows cawing, and a cardinal or two chipping in the brush.

Migrating birds were still present. A gray catbird tumbled among the young trees surrounding the garden. Yellow-rumped warblers flashed their butter-butts. Two hermit thrushes patronized the large pokeweeds decorating the yard with still-green leaves and, more importantly, fat purple berries. For the migrating birds this was a respite from travel, though not without its dangers. My mother-in-law’s cats lurk in the underbrush, when they’re not hiding from the weather in her house. Our house has plenty of windows to confuse a startled bird. I wondered for a moment if the birds felt adrift in a hostile world, but “home” is a concept for those of us who build and use shelters. Even our winter residents will live a transient existence in search of food.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

It would have been a great picture. The handsome mouse lay curled in on itself, like the woolly bear we showed to the baby later in the day. Its lower body was white, its sides golden brown, and a dark band followed its back. I didn’t take its picture, though, because I thought I might have killed the creature with my shovel.

I had been moving topsoil from a pile to a new flowerbed. When I dumped the load, the mouse emerged like form from nothingness. Neither fear nor breath moved the body, except… maybe there was a twitch. Or just the way one’s eyes create movement when held still for too long. I gently turned the mouse over but could discover no wounds in the supple body. Maybe the damage was all internal? As far as I knew, our mice don’t hibernate. Even our chipmunks, which do, are still foraging, filling the woods with chirrups and rustling leaves.

I could still take a picture of a dead mouse, but it doesn’t feel right. Not one that I’ve killed directly or indirectly. There’s a sense of exploitation, or disrespect. Telling the story feels different, since the part I’ve played is firmly in place rather than off screen. As for giving meaning to an accidental death, the idea of not wasting death is a human one, not a comfort to the dead creature itself. It’s interesting that humans attribute such feelings to fellow creatures, when most humans in life or death situations would happily take the bastards down with them. It is also not a woodland idea, where death is savored by assorted creatures from the large to the microscopic.

I removed the body to the base of a rotting stump. It began to pulse in on itself, but even with this sign of life (or at least electrical activity) I resisted a picture. The movement reminded me of birds that have fatally injured themselves on windows. I left it alone to its fate, because a predator is not a comfort to the dying.

It was gone when I returned, and I realized I could have taken the picture guilt-free.

Later I was able to fill in my information gaps with our reference books. The rodent was technically not a mouse but a jumping mouse. Woodland jumping mice hibernate about half the year, which would account for the early internment. They are common yet rarely seen. So I probably won’t have another chance.

Saturday, July 16, 2011


Flowering cattails


Cattails from a summer past


Bitter nightshade




Wild leek, aka ramp

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Life in the woods has been busy since I last posted. I’ve been busy with a different project, which I hope will bear its own fruit in time.

The floating auras of mosquitoes which one acquires in our woods have been reduced, although they’ve been supplemented by the flies which zip around our head and occasionally bury themselves in our hair. I try to always remember a hat so I’m not constantly running my hands over my head. Back in June I almost walked into a spider web. I bent down to watch the spider tend to a long-legged fly. A mosquito hovered into view and I automatically blew it away, right into the web. She flew this way and that, seemingly about to break free, but then the spider hustled over. It spun the mosquito around while wrapping her in silk. Finished, the spider settled down between its two prizes. I left with a small feeling of satisfaction.

Many, though not all, of our migratory birds are also engaged in eating insects. The forest is still filled with bird sounds, but much less of them are songs. Bird families keep together with chatter as they forage. The robins in the woodshed fledged in mid-June. Three fat robins were crowded into the nest one day and the nest was empty the next, the wall white-washed with droppings. A raucous family of titmice has been patronizing the feeders at my mother in-law’s house since about the same time. The cats and the baby get very excited at their fluttering arrivals (“Bir! Bir!).

Blackbirds no longer tied to a nest are shifting around the landscape in large flocks. When we walk in the evenings, they move overhead from forage to roost in waves of clouds, if I may be allowed to mix metaphors. Flocks of grackles regularly invade patches of the forest. The woods come alive with them moving from ground to tree to tree in every direction, brown young birds with a faint sheen mixed with their iridescent elders. Suddenly the balance shifts and they blow through like a wind as they leave.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Last year, the day before my partner went into labor, we walked a forest trail with tall groves of cinnamon and interrupted ferns. This year we wanted to recreate that hike with the baby in tow, which we did last week. It was even more beautiful than I remembered. If there were a color called royal green, it would be found in the late spring woods. Pools contemplated still reflections. Unfortunately they also had hosted the mosquito larvae that turned into the hordes of adults now hovering around us, waiting for any chance to alight on exposed flesh. We belatedly remembered that last year had been a dry spring, and after ten minutes one of us said, “That was nice. Shall we go home now?”

If we had less summer invertebrates, there would be less breeding birds. There are plenty which don’t want my blood to fuel their reproduction, which I appreciate. I like to watch little native bees with pollen panniers and spiders lurking in grass caves. Fireflies add a touch of elegance to the darkening woods, especially if I don’t think of Disney’s Magic Kingdom. A few days ago I played paparazzi to the flashier side of the arthropod world, butterflies and damselflies sunning themselves along the driveway.


Banded purple


Ebony jewelwing


Mourning cloak

Monday, May 23, 2011

The summer visitors have settled in among the residents, at least in the bird community. Migrating birds have to arrive early so their young can be laid and incubated before the halcyon days of late spring, early summer. There’s a robin mother tucked in to a nest outside our window, the circle of white around her eye making her look watchful.


[Trillium]

Many of the spring flowers have moved on to seeds and fruit. Trilliums flowers sag and many dandelions sport tiny supernovas. Dandelion flowers still dot the lawn, and wild geraniums grace the forest. Foamflowers float above the litter of the forest floor.


[Dandelions]


[Wild geraniums]


[Foamflowers]

Sunday, May 15, 2011

I was playing outside with my daughter and I noticed one of my mother-in-law’s cats tossing something furry about. It was a headless juvenile rabbit. I hadn’t noticed the cottontails were well into their reproductive season, an ignorance which the rabbits work hard to foster. The mother hides her helpless young with wood piles or leaves and grass before they’re ready to venture out among their many enemies, which includes both our dogs and cats.

The forest teems with bird movement and songs. Male birds are showy and loud as they acoustically carve out territories and woo fair maidens. Movement to and from nests by either sex is as secretive as possible. I’ve seen lots of quiet birds with bits of straw or other nest material in their mouths. One morning I had set my phone alarm in order to return home for my turn with the baby. When it went off, I heard a flutter of wings right above me. A blue jay hopped away from a mess of sticks to join a second bird nearby. They both proceeded to eye me. I hurried away, leaving them to their reproductive effort while I tended to mine.

I could seek out more nests, but now that I don’t have a field job I find my accidental encounters are enough to satisfy my curiosity. Parents abandon nests more easily than they abandon fledglings, which represent a longer investment of time and effort. Jays and other nest predators have learned during field studies to follow human trails or even watch people and their markings in order to locate nests.

Nest predators are as numerous as the rabbits’ enemies. Eggs and nestlings are convenient protein packages that even squirrels and deer are happy to munch. A brown cowbird often skulks among the young beech trees by the garden, searching for unattended nests in which to deposit her changelings.


[Brown-headed cowbird male (right) displaying for a reluctant female]

Eggs need a resting place for incubation, but chicks come in different levels of readiness. Last weekend my friend jo(e) was visiting. In the morning mist we startled a ruffed grouse, which shot away in an explosion of wings in the hope that we would either be distracted or would at least not eat her along with the twelve perfect eggs tucked into her nest. After admiring them we moved on. If they survive to hatch, twelve little chicks will trail after their mother within a day of hatching, making moving targets for their enemies.

Saturday, April 30, 2011


[Blue cohosh]

Fertile spring emerged from the morning fog glistening with rain. Overnight the balance had shifted from brown to green. The tight bundles of blue cohosh relaxed and lightened to a grayish green. Hillocks were softly furred with patches of trout lily leaves. Ferns rose in fiddleheads and little arching rib cages. Skunk cabbage leaves have expanded to smother the flowers, while tree flowers are being overtaken by leaves in various hues.

Everywhere spring beauties were coiled up tight from the night, ready to open later in the day. The drooping trout lilies were only waiting for a break in the clouds. They burst into bloom, like festive little banana peels discarded throughout the forest. Trilliums gaped open, not quite in their glory.




[Trout lilies]

The soundscape was also maturing. Finally the strains of our flutist, the wood thrush, settled over the forest. Ovenbird song crashed through the underbrush. As I made my way next door, a black-throated green warbler declared, “zee zee zee zoo zeet!”

Sunday, April 24, 2011

On a rainy morning, scattered droplets disturbed the trees and gray sky reflected in forest pools. Greenery glistened, mostly moss, clumps of grass, and patches of trout lily leaves. Splatters of white paint were revealed to be hepatica flowers bent against the rain. Suddenly the volume was turned up and the rain intensified, turning to little crystals that bounced off my jacket. It filled the soundscape. Distantly I heard random bird chatter and my mother-in-law’s generator running as it supplemented the hidden sun.

Today the woods whisper with warblers. They tumble about aspen canopies hung with drooping flowers. I walked back to the garden to check on my seedlings and found a brown thrasher hopping among a thick growth of young beeches. His species creates songs with mimicry and he muttered to himself, trying out new pick-up lines. When I left he had moved on to more mundane concerns. He churned through the leaf litter with his feet and beak in search of insects.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Morning settled in with a light frost that outlined green leaves on the ground and traced patterns on still pools. The branches above were far from still as birds indulged in the drama that is often superseded by the dance of survival other times of the year. A male brown-headed cowbird puffed up in display for the female next to him on a branch. She, unimpressed, kept sidling a little away. Nearby, an expectant robin father held vigil while the female hunkered down in her finished nest. They have little to fear from the nest parasitism of the cowbirds, since robins often remove offending eggs instead of incubating them. An ongoing yellow-bellied sapsucker dispute periodically erupted into a squeaky argument complete with slow chase. A quieter chase involved a silent hermit thrush being harassed down the driveway by his larger cousin, a robin. This thrush has farther to travel before he can carve out his own territory. In our woods the summer flutist will be the wood thrush.

Also in the canopy, the drama of tree reproduction proceeded with only visual fanfare.


[Aspen flowering]

Up and coming flowers:

[Blue cohosh]


[White trillium]


[Bloodroot]

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Days ago I stepped out into the blue-gray thickness of twilight. Turkeys gobbled from beyond the stream. The drumming of scattered ruffed grouse sounded like the heartbeat of the forest, or possibly rival lawn mowers failing to start up. I suppose the obsession with lawns in some communities is a similar competition for status.

Robins began to chatter and a cardinal sang. Chickadees scolded and sang. The blaze of dawn climbed the horizon behind the spruce trees. The knocking displays of woodpeckers made the forest creak like an old house. A pileated woodpecker flew to a tree and backed down it with a jerky, bobbing motion. About chest height he hopped off, presumably to a nearby dead beech with extensive excavation curving down the trunk and fresh wood chips littering the base. Chickadees argued while a nuthatch peeped softly, disapprovingly. The chickadees followed each other like friendly cats, moving to nearby branches as if a chase wasn’t their purpose.


[Wild leeks]

Wild leeks are raising a flag to celebrate spring. New greenery has been a long time coming, with the snow cover clinging to the bitter, sunny end. Finally hepaticas are blooming, at first in pale, secretive clusters that multiplied and brightened overnight. Exotic coltsfoot dots the lawn like dwarf dandelions while purple crocuses stand bright and (relatively) tall in a bed with one little outlier beginning a lawn invasion. Minute fields of trout lily leaves have sprung up and tree buds are finally bursting into flowers.


[Hepatica]

A robin pair already has a nest under construction near the house. The other day I watched as the female flew up to the structure and moved around in the developing cup, using her body as a caliper. More phoebes have come after several days of silence, but I fear these will also reject our little compound. The old nest location at grandma’s house was on a wall above the first story roof, which is now accessible to her cats. I only hope they can find a site nearby this year.


[Robin nest, using zoom lens]

Monday, April 4, 2011



Yesterday a phoebe was checking out our woodshed. I heard his emphatic little song in the morning and then again in the evening. Bird song has settled down during the day, and the forest was quiet a few days ago when I grabbed my camera for a walk along the stream. Bird noises broke out erratically, calls and chipping. Snow lay everywhere, clinging to form under the bright sun. Water lay placid in the stream, with accents and edgings of ice. A bit of debris on my hat revealed itself to be a small, slow-moving insect with long wings.

We’re moving into the time of year when I step carefully in the forest. Perennial plants are emerging from their safe coverings of dirt, leaves, and snow. Skunk cabbage flowers* lined the stream where they were easy to spot. Others poked through moss and leaf litter, camouflaged until I was almost upon them. Once noticed, they gave a whimsy to the stream floodplain as colorful gnome hats which twisted and bowed. Their hues ranged from lemon yellow to wine red. They’re all so unique that I couldn’t bear to accidentally crush even one, which is not a sentiment shared by nature nor humanity in general.

*The structures are modified leaves with the actual flower head forming a ball within the hood.








Exposed flower head.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

The morning sun casts a long shadow from the spruce stand. Snow crunches underfoot, although under the stand itself the low sun has filtered through and softened the snow cover. These last few sunny days have been clear and cold. It feels more like late winter, but realistically that’s wishful thinking. The main defining quality of our early spring weather is its erratic nature.

I’m enjoying the brisk beauty even less because my body seems to be fighting off yet another virus which my partner brought home from her job in health care. Fortunately the baby has recovered quickly. One of the main selection pressures among “civilized” humans has been infectious disease. High population densities and extensive trading contacts have nurtured and spread infectious agents for a long time. A cold, wet spring is just not the danger it once was.


Here’s one of the rabbits which periodically shows itself in the evening, sending the dogs into a barking frenzy. Otherwise I mostly see tracks, droppings, and the remains of raspberry canes which have been cleanly cut by the rabbits’ incisors.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Vernal Equinox morning

I stepped outside into the forest holding its tongue. A full moon and the beginning of sunrise perched on opposing sides of the horizon. Machinery began to hum on the moon side. Closer to the still unseen sun, a robin broke out in staccato laughter. A cardinal was the first to deem the light bright enough to sing. The world of man spoke up in response, and crows commented on the dawn from distant roosts. Then that first robin began his song.

Snow clung to cold pockets and shadows. The water pooled in depressions everywhere had a veneer of ice criss-crossed with stress lines. Chickadees sang in slightly offset unison, almost masked by the loud descending notes of a cardinal. Overhead, the light blue sky provided a backdrop for fat tree buds preparing to flower. Below, the flattened leaves were revealed in russets and grays. Moss barely stood out from the brown, although I knew that lately it’s shone emerald green in full light. Frost graced the edges of the forest.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Robins are trying to claim our yard with their liquid warbles. The long gray months have got everyone obsessed with spring signs. Of course the titmice have been singing for weeks, but I suppose that sounds less dignified than reporting a red-breasted robin.

The snow was so thick and firm right after the recent storm that plows sculpted the roads out of it. The other day what little remained sagged under the onslaught of warmth and rain. Depressions emerged as little moonscapes of slush mixed with cold water.

The world surged with movement. An impromptu creek flowed under the snow at the edge of our property. I encountered several raccoon tracks which struck more or less straight across the forest floor, altering slightly to disappear at the base of exposed logs and reappear at the ends. Raccoons don’t hibernate, but they are less active in the bitter cold. The snow was littered with debris, including empty acorn caps and eviscerated husks. I imagined these were from the chipmunks bounding everywhere lately, which breed so early they need to rely on stored food for sustenance.

An assortment of birds continued their motions toward their breeding seasons. In the distance a woodpecker rattled in a display of drumming. Overhead flew loose clouds of blackbirds and dark silhouettes of assorted waterfowl. Suddenly snow geese filled the sky with vast geometric designs. They passed in waves, until all that remained was their distant honking.

Here are some snow pictures while it’s still officially winter:





Friday, February 25, 2011

On a calm day in autumn, you can hear the sound of leaves littering the forest floor. On certain summer days, there’s the soft rain of caterpillars pooping. Today a walk outside is accompanied by the plop of clumps of snow, at least those that don’t hit branches on the way down and dissipate in a spray of white.

The morning when most of that snow was deposited on the trees, a titmouse was bravely singing “peter peter peter” among the steady flakes. Birds don’t need to check their shadows to know that spring is coming. They have an internal calendar which is calibrated by the shortening night lengths. Late February sees an increase in bird song, that special vocalizing which birds use to secure territories and attract mates.


[Black-capped chickadee]

The chickadee song of “fee-bee-bee” and “fee-bee” joins the myriad of other vocalizations made by this chatty species. It can be sung year-round by both sexes, but the main use is by males in the breeding season.


[Red-bellied woodpecker]

Woodpeckers drum instead of singing.


[Red-tailed hawk]

Red-tailed hawks use aerial displays for courtship and territorial tasks.