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January 31, 2010 morning

12/31/2012

1/31/2010 - morning

            I walked up Cravens Terrace toward Cravens House. A flock of twenty or so Robins was feeding among the leaves in the now melting snow. They had left the solitary ways of summer behind. When the nestlings are grown, they join loose flocks to search leaf piles and disturbed soil for prey. On this particular day, they fed beneath the ice sheathed twigs that have our woods a crystal palace.

As ice melted, water dripped from the trees. Each twig sparkled, a perfect gem in the morning sun. The previous day’s landscape was merely pretty, but the overcast sky had prevented the sun from fully illuminating the ice. On this day it was dazzling.

            Lower Cravens Terrace was solidly iced in. The sun warmed each bare patch of pavement and spread its warmth to melt the surrounding ice.

            I noticed the forest abundant pines, a contrast to the oaks and tulip trees of the woods near my house. The soft, pliable needles of the White Pines had clumped together in one icy wad. The stiff needles of the other pines each had its sheath of ice. The dried flower head of a hydrangea was fully encased in ice, perfectly preserved for a brief time.

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January 31, 2010

12/30/2012

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12/31/2010 - Evening

The air was clear. The fog and haze lifted and the lights of the city below were clearly visible. An orange full moon floated just above the city, the Wolf Moon of January.

With binoculars I saw the stark relief of earth’s airless sister. The waterless seas (really plains) and bold mountains were as white as the snow underfoot. I stoked the woodstove and walked up the road to the highway and back. I saw one neighbor warming himself by a bonfire he had built on top of the snow. His power was still off.

Orion and Canis Major shone brightly with their other companions. With binoculars I saw the fuzzy outline of the middle star in Orion’s sword, really a nebula. The stars faded in the light of the full moon, this night’s ruler. It illuminated the landscape like a weak sun, and once more I saw the icy sheaths that engulf the twigs. They sparkled in the moonlight, casting shadows on the snow.

Though this snowfall created some hardship, I did not wish to see it go. I see so little snow here in the southern mountains, and it reminds me of my childhood home in Ohio. It does not even approach what I saw the years I lived in New Hampshire and Illinois.

I remember one winter in New Hampshire when we lifted a picnic table out of the snow and set it on the crust, its feet resting above the former level of its surface. The hole made an excellent ice cave when covered with downed branches and chunks of crusted ice. It remained in tact for a month or more.

By choice I do not have television or internet service at my house, or even a landline telephone. For a time, the snow even eliminated radio, electric lights, and heat, and made my road impassable. The pleasure of a snowy day more than compensated me for the inconvenience of missing modern amenities. In many respects, I found it more pleasurable than the alternative. With a battery operated radio and a gas stove, I could live quite well in such circumstances. I remember times in my life when I did so.

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Amnicola Marsh Revisited

12/28/2012

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Sunday, January 1, 2012
Follows up from Previous Posting
            A week later, I returned to Amnicola Marsh, to see what I might find on another day. The Hooded Mergansers I had seen on Monday were back, or a group like them had arrived. I counted thirty-two this time. I thought the living tide had continued on South, but perhaps they were only in another part of the urban wetlands along the river.
            They moved in stately grace. Heads bobbed with each forward movement They dove at intervals, resurfacing in a brief moment. They did not appear to be fishing, merely diving for the motion of it. I watched for just a few minutes before they fled across the pond. Along went three
Green Winged Teal – the shading on the trailing edge of the wings perfectly visible.
            Several American Coots and one Pied-billed Grebe also dove in the shallows of the marsh. A few Mallards dabbled along, but the usually prominent Canada Geese were absent. A Great Blue Heron filled out the complement of water birds.
            Land birds primarily consisted of a large winter flock of American Robins. The flitted from tree to tree and landed in a puddle where the marsh had overflowed its banks. They bathed despite the forty degree air and with vigorous shaking that I am tempted to label enjoyment, though no one knows if birds feel any emotion or not. Other than the American Robins, the land birds included Northern Mockingbirds, Northern Cardinals, two European Starlings, a Downy Woodpecker and a Common Flicker (Yellow Shafted Form).
            As I neared my turnaround point, a motion in a tree drew my eyes upward to see a raccoon, reminding me birds are not the only residents here.. The fur bearer climbed into a fork in the trunk, where a cozy platform of leaves and twigs awaited. I know raccoons nest in hollows of trees, so this was more likely a convenient resting place than a home. Alert and wary, the creature watched me as I made the return trip to my truck.

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Amnicloa Marsh - Urban Wild

12/27/2012

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Chattanooga's Amnicola Marsh – Urban Wild

Monday, December 26, 2011 - Just one year ago.

Search “Hooded Mergansers” for photos of the species herein described:

A splendid movement of ducks greeted me at the first opening, just a few feet in from the parking lot. I saw a few Mallards and Hooded Mergansers just offshore, and jumped to the top of a rock to focus my binoculars on a nearby drake Hooded Merganser. A rush of wings and water drew my attention to the right as a mixed flock moved out of the marshy growth along the shore. They half flew and half swam to the open water just a few feet away.

A spectacular vision of Hooded Mergansers appeared to me at Amnicola Marsh, among the smokestacks and asphalt just off Chattanooga's Amnicola Highway. This industrial zone saw the onslaught of development as trees gave way to bricks and concrete year after year, but Amnicola Marsh remained a haven for waterfowl as an area too wet for development and too large to drain. It eventually received some protection for the State of Tennessee. Today, a more enlightened local government has introduced small parks, and a pedestrian walkway and bike path stretching from downtown Chattanooga, outward to Chickamauga Dam on the Tennessee River.

This Riverwalk is valuable green space for recreation, and habitat for wildlife, all on a strip of land not far from the banks of the river. Visitors can hike, bike, and view the herons that appear statue-like as they line the shore. In the appropriate season, one can see Osprey nesting on the railroad overpass near the dam. Occasionally an Osprey will grab a fish before the eyes of startled visitors.

Despite the spectacular dives by Osprey at Chickamauga Dam and the Great Blue Heron rookeries at various locations along the river, Amnicola Marsh has become my favorite Riverwalk location for “birding.” The sight of thirty-five Hooded Mergansers at the Marsh on this day was particularly lovely.

The reddish swept-back feathers on the heads of the hens, and the white crests edged with just a bit of black on the drakes, bestowed beauty to rival any sunset. The pale red on the flanks and the white bands on the tails of both male and female ducks give a grace note to set off the white chests of the males, interrupted by two contrasting black bands. Their beauty was unmatched by other birds I saw that day.

Their heads nodded with each forward movement. The beaks were fine and delicate, though clearly designed for fish. These are not the spatulate bills of Mallards and Northern Shovelers, used to gather aquatic plants.

I had never before seen more than seven or eight Hooded Mergansers at one time. These thirty-five, far closer than I had ever previously viewed the species, in the midst of the industrial degradation and traffic noise of Amnicola Highway, demonstrated that the marsh still thrives, though much reduced in size. In summer, lotus plants bloom and lift their seed pods to the nourishing sun just a few feet from the concrete trail used by passing cyclists.

On this winter day, American Coots patrolled the marsh. Mallards and Northern Shovelers joined them and the ever present Canada Geese. A flock of wintering American Robins moved through the trees surrounding the marsh, as a lone Great Blue Heron stood sentry, squawked, and crossed the pond at my approach.

I revisited the marsh on Tuesday and Wednesday of that week and saw the American Robins, Mallards, Northern Shovelers, American Coots, and the Great Blue Heron, but not even one Hooded Merganser. I believed the spectacle was a gift not soon repeated. I thought of them and remembered a similar day at Prime Hook Refuge in Delaware, when I caught the Snow Goose migration. It appeared as though a gigantic down pillow had been split open and rained white feathers across the inlet.

I stood for a few minutes on the marsh as it might have been before dams and locks kept the Tennessee River navigable year round and redirected flood waters away from vulnerable homes and businesses. The living tide of geese and ducks flowed through this urban country just as the Sandhill Cranes flow to nearby Hiwassee State Wildlife Refuge and on south to Okefenokee, migrating to winter food sources and back to summer breeding grounds.

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December Ducks

12/26/2012

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From my journal - early to mid 1990's

One Christmas day, years ago, when the wind was cool, the southern sun warmed my back. I walked beside a pond where the ducks danced. They enacted an ancient ritual.

The icy fingers of the North Wind had stopped short of this southern pond. Open water greeted the ducks. Just a few hundred miles to the north, ice covered the ponds and held back the rights of spring. Here, there was no such restraint. The Mallards performed a courtship ritual, enacted by countless generations long gone but repeated by their descendents today.

I once pointed out this dance of ducks out to a group of people accompanying me on a nature walk. I observed that, for ducks, dancing leads to mating. A woman in the crowd stated that this is sometimes true for people, too.

The male ducks circled the pond in full breeding plumage. Just a few months before this day, they sported “eclipse plumage,” mottled dark and light brown. They looked much the female ducks. On this December day, they displayed nature's brighter colors. The green head and reddish breast of a male Mallards makes a splendid image, perfect for catching the eye of a brown female watching from the shallows near the pond’s edge.

Soon, one female tucked her beak near a wing and swam past the circling males in a timeless gesture known as the “inciting display.” True to its name, the display incited remarkable antics on the part of the drakes. They bobbed their heads. Each in turn dipped his beak to the water and flung droplets over his back. Two of them raised their beaks skyward and shook their heads from side to side.

The drakes continued their dance with head and tail held high in display of readiness for courtship to continue. This was all for the benefit of the females, watching from nearby, and soon one made a pass through their graceful water ballet. She swam with head lowered and neck stretched along the pond’s surface. She was “nod swimming,” a maneuver used both as an aggressive sign to unwanted intruders and to attract the attention of prospective mates.

Her maneuver provoked another round of displays by the males. They shook their heads from side to side, swam with head up and tail up, and again flung water droplets over their heads. One followed the female but she quickly rebuffed him. For Mallard ducks, mate selection is entirely the female’s domain. She would attract several suitors before one proved acceptable.

This December ritual was mere flirtation. Serious courtship would come at a later date, in the warm months of spring. Then the pairs would form briefly, and soon female ducks would sit on eggs. Meanwhile, the males would set off to get the attention of other females. By the time the eggs hatched, the males would trade their bright colors for the mottled eclipse plumage.

Unlike the gander that shepherds the goslings behind a mother goose, male ducks provide no help in parental care of the young. The females hatch the eggs and raise the young on their own. They must lay a large clutch of eggs in order to assure that a few will survive to adulthood.

This is why a dozen or more cheeping young follow a female duck, while four is a more common number for geese. Several will succumb to the jaws of snapping turtles and even large fish and water snakes. Perhaps one of this year's young will survive to join the dance.

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Remembering a Solstice

12/15/2012

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Remembering a Winter Solstice

The sky overhead brightened from black to indigo to that bright purple of dawning to ordinary blue. The red band in the East faded from bright red to the pale color of corned beef.
As the pink sky faded, a robin gave its morning cry, answered by the insistent “teacher, teacher, teacher” of a tufted titmouse. The red leaves of the maples and the yellow leaves of the tulip poplar have faded and fallen. The greens of pines and cedars remain to offset the brown oaks which will hold their leaves into winter and spring.
Back inside I saw a slip of orange sky above the horizon. It grew and rose as the day progressed. Then the whole round sun was above the horizon. Dawn had long since given way to daylight. In the new light of day I noticed a venerable old oak visible from my kitchen window. It held several green balls of mistletoe.
That night I tried some binocular and naked eye astronomy. Orion shone above the eastern horizon. With binoculars, the individual stars were just points of light, except the central one in the sword. This one was a diffuse smudge – the Orion Nebula, M42 in the language of astronomers.
The nebula is a stellar nursery, a gas cloud where conditions are proper for formation of new stars. I have seen this nebula through small telescopes which revealed a cluster of four stars in a trapezoid shape. These young stars from the Trapezium, listed as Theta-One Orinis in Burnhams Celestial Handbook.
Taurus seemed faint in comparison to its surrounding constellations. I trained my binoculars on Aldebaran, the red star in the lower left corner, and saw it surrounded by a wispy halo. A band of haze must account for that halo and the dimness of the constellation.
The Pleiades were as bright as ever. In Japan they are known as Subaru, and I ponder how many drivers in English speaking countries notice the stars surrounding the name plate on automobiles that bear the constellation's name. Have they ever wondered what those stars have to do with Subaru?. I saw six stars in Suburu with my naked eye. The six become fifty or so with my binoculars.
Above the Pleiades I saw a very bright object, orange in the binoculars. It was undoubtedly the planet Mars, very close that year. My binoculars were not powerful enough to reveal any details of the surface, though on other occasions I have trained them on Jupiter and seen four of its moons.
Auriga, The Charioteer, was visible, but Capella, its brightest star, seemed much fainter than usual. The faint triangle near Capella was not visible, apparently concealed by the same band of haze partly covering Taurus. Together, Capella and the triangle are known as the mother goat and the three kids.
Cassiopeia was bright, truly a queen of the polar region. The other constellations surrounding Polaris were hidden behind the trees and the mountain. Soon Orion and his hounds would chase the bull across the sky and the springtime constellations would rise. The falling leaves of the trees had given way, and the trees thrust bare branches to the sky. Soon screech owls would nest in the woodlot near my house.

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The Guardian

12/9/2012

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The Guardian

Strophe: Encounter

She moves in circles, round and round, beside the road. The guardian is not coiling, not preparing to strike, just circling. Is she injured by a passing car? Is she warming up, absorbing heat from the pavement? Is she preparing to give birth? What business is she about on this mountaintop in northeast Alabama?

I stop the car but don’t get out. I don’t want to meet the Guardian. I am not motivated to uncurl the scaly body and take an accurate measurement of the guardian’s length. I am enough of a woodsman to have a healthy respect for the power of a mature timber rattlesnake. The snake inspires fear in the minds, but even more so in the emotions, of those who encounter her.

Antistrophe: Naturalist
The snake has a well-muscled body. As quick as lightning, she can uncoil, strike, and sink her fangs. The fangs sink up to an inch deep in unprotected flesh, muscle, and tissue. The hollow fangs of vipers may well have inspired the development of the hypodermic needle.

Fangs are hollow teeth attached to venom sacks behind the eyes. The venom is modified saliva, a cocktail mix of systemic poisons and enzymes that both kills and digests a hapless mouse or chipmunk. The snake’s jaws unhinge and the skin stretches to engulf the victim, whole. By that time, the venom has done its work and the victim is already partly digested.

Many animals rely on their eyes and ears when hunting. A snake relies on a sense located in its tongue and in the roof of its mouth. The flicking tongue catches molecules in the ambient air and deposits them on the roof of the mouth, in a special structure called the Jacobson’s organ. The Jacobson’s organ is a chemoreceptor much like the human nose and taste buds. It allows the snake to seek out and find prey from a chemical trace in the air.

Rattlesnakes and their kin also rely on heat-sensing pits, indentations between the eyes and nostrils that detect a warm-blooded animal’s presence by sensing its body heat. This sense is so accurate that a striking rattlesnake can hit a mouse in total darkness. These pits give rattlesnakes, copperheads, and their new world relatives the name “pit vipers.”

Snakes are so skilled at using these senses to find food that they are perfect eating machines. Each is a digestive tract covered with skin. Their main activities are movement, feeding, and reproduction. Since they lack eyelids, they sleep with their eyes open.

Strophe: Photographer
I notice the guardian’s color, light gray with dark bands, and a black tail. She blends in perfectly with the limestone rocks and hunts from ambush. What could serve as a more powerful symbol of the primal forces of nature, fragmented but still present in the small patches of wild country remaining on this mountain?

The guardian lies beside the road. She is four feet long and covered with scaly skin. Each scale possesses a ridge, a line down its center. The ridge is a keel in the language of herpetologists.

I photograph the guardian from inside my car. With my door closed and the window down, five feet of pavement and a steel door separate me from coiled muscles, striking body, and venom-laden fangs.

I turn off the engine to stop the shake of the car and camera. This prevents blurred photographs. I have not turned on the emergency flashers to warn oncoming cars. Few cars travel this highway, especially on weekdays.

The guardian stops moving, perhaps because the vibrations of the engine have stopped. Snakes have very poor hearing. She is unaware of the clicking of my camera’s shutter, but could quite possibly have felt the vibrations of the car’s engine.

Time is outside my awareness. Present, past, and future merge in the flow of the moment. I am alone, lost. I photograph the guardian . . . “Smile!”

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January 31, 2010 morning

January 31, 2010

Amnicola Marsh Revisited

Amnicloa Marsh - Urban Wild

December Ducks

Remembering a Solstice

The Guardian

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