Birding by Impression I

Newer birders tend to focus on details. They squint to ascertain the hue of shorebird legs and doggedly attempt to sort out sparrows based on breast pattern. Following the field marks is the classic route to improve one's birding prowess. But, in many cases, those details are superfluous.

Let me set the stage. You are walking through a beech-maple forest on a balmy April afternoon. A medium-sized bird--looks woodpeckerish--flushes from a nearby tree and lands several trees back. You try to manuever to get a clear view, but the bird keeps ducking behind the trunk, staying out of sight.

It was a sapsucker. They're sneaky. Their coyness is unparalleled in the woodpecker clan. Don't bother looking for white wing stripe or the red throat patch.

A rocking chair, an amphibian, and some people who like nature

The amphibian exodus

Wood Frog (Lithobates sylvaticus)

Late last night, returning from a jam session with my friend Alex, I saw frogs like popcorn on the rainy roads. I even saw (and narrowly avoided squishing) a salamander army-crawling across the nature center driveway. And so I decided to go for a midnight amphibian hunt even though I craved sleep.

Such nights are ideal for finding frogs and salamanders. Amphibian movements are dictated by rain--their skin must remain moist, and some individuals traverse hundreds of meters of high ground to reach their breeding pools. Moving at night presumably ameliorates desiccation and lends security from predators.

They covet vernal pools, those ephemeral puddles that will dry by July. These temporary ponds cannot house fish and other aquatic predators, creating a safe nursery for amphibians. But, the amphibians can't waste their time--the pools will dry, and if the larvae cannot mature, they perish. Starting in late February and early March, the salamanders stage a sluggish exodus from their subterranean hovels to their ice-rimmed breeding pools.

As I hiked through the persistent rain, I imagined seething masses of salamanders and cautiously planted each step to avoid pancaking any migrating amphibians. The scene at the first pool I visited was much less exciting than I had imagined--a few chilled Wood Frogs floated around, but nothing else. I had to search for ten minutes until I found my first Jefferson Salamander.

Jefferson Salamander (Ambystoma jeffersonianum)

I moved on to a second pool. This one throbbed with frog activity. I could hear the Spring Peepers from a quarter-mile away, and as I drew close, I could Wood Frogs gurgling the base line to the frog cacophony. The frogs, chilled and hormone-charged, were easy to catch.

Spring Peeper (Pseudacris crucifer)

Wood Frog (Lithobates sylvaticus). Crawling onto a sheet of ice isn't such a great decision when you are a poikilotherm!

No salamanders. I probed the shallow water with the beam of my headlamp, but the hunt was fruitless. Finally, out of desperation, I cast my net into the pool and dredged a three-foot section of the pool's bottom. To my astonishment, the net came up with a Spotted Salamander! I couldn't duplicate this feat despite casting the net a dozen more times.

Spotted Salamander (Ambystoma maculatum)

And finally, this evening, while seeking woodcocks at Shor Park, I came across this fearsome salamander that I cannot identify
.

Just kidding--it's a crayfish, of course. I decided to overcome my deep-seated fear of crustaceans and picked it up. I didn't even get pinched! I can highly recommend the experience. Don't be afraid.

Snowday sapsucker

Cincinnati has neither the snow-removal infrastructure nor the cold tolerance of more northerly cities. Moderate snowfall that would be met with a shrug in Grand Rapids paralyzes this city. As a result, I had two snow days from work last week. But, I can’t complain—I used that time to bird. (Don’t even ask me how many hours I wasted poking my head into the bellies of Red Cedars looking for Saw-whet Owls.)

On Wednesday morning, I stumbled across a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker working a sugar maple. It looked miserable, as it should have—temperatures were barely breaking the positives. No sap would weep from its wells today.

Sapsuckers are a hot topic at the nature center this time of year. We regale the visiting children with the importance of the quasi-mythical woodpecker called a sapsucker. We showcase old wells and explain that other species will steal from the sapsucker’s property. However, I was taken aback when my supervisor referred to sapsuckers as a keystone species. Really? I wondered. I bet if all the sapsuckers disappeared from these woods, business would be unchanged…

Fact: other species plunder sapsucker wells. I’ve caught Yellow-rumped Warblers in the act. But, I would contend that, at least in the sapsucker’s winter range*, other species don’t glean a significant percentage of their daily caloric intake from sapsucker wells**.  And, here in Cincinnati, I don’t think winter sapsuckers are abundant enough to support significant populations of, say, Ruby-crowned Kinglets…

I realized that my hang-up might be semantic. I launched an archaeological dig to unearth my biology textbook, which I have admittedly used more often as a dumbbell than a vehicle of scholarship. Page 1073 defines a keystone species as an organism that “has a much greater impact on the distribution and abundance of the surrounding species than its abundance and total biomass would suggest.”

Huh. Vague.

A brief search on Google Scholar confirmed my suspicions—I found multiple articles questioning the usefulness of the term, including one that read, “The term keystone species is poorly defined and broadly applied.” Yup. The concept is real—as George Orwell would say, “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” But, labeling Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers and apex predators like wolves with the same title seems ludicrous. I will have to tinker with my sapsucker spiel before the next school group comes to learn about maple syrup.

*I got thinking about sapsucker range and had to look it up. Basically, there’s a flip-flop around the tension zone in Wisconsin and mid-Michigan. Cincinnati is well within their winter range, but they don’t seem abundant here.

Summer (Jun-Jul)

Winter (Dec-Feb)

**Of course, there are exceptions. See Dorian Anderson's blog for an intriguing example.

Winter Wraith

The lair.

On a recent visit to the nature center's Long Branch Farm property, I encountered an avian insurgent, an insectivorous guerrilla that defies winter's frigid tantrums in the shelter of ravines and creek banks. That bird was a Winter Wren, a stubby little bird the color of dark chocolate. I imagine it must tussle with chipmunks and salamanders in the quasi-subterranean niches it inhabits.

As this photo demonstrates, the Winter Wren is, under normal circumstances, undetectable as it lurks in dark crevasses. Fortunately for birders, the Winter Wren would perform well in the role of a crabby mother-in-law; at the first sign of conflict (i.e., pishing), it emerges from the catacombs and scolds voraciously. 

The bird skated around on the frozen creek before taking off for a more peaceful hovel. That illustrates another dimension of the Winter Wren personality; it never (i.e., never) sits still. 

As a boy, I was perplexed about this wren's name. A much better name would be October Wren, I thought. For that was the month they always appeared in my backyard, burrowing through the woodpile and popping out in unexpected places. In Michigan, a winter Winter Wren is a prize, a bird worthy of a high five on a Christmas count. Here in southern Ohio, they are easier to find--walk a half mile of any creek, and you will kick one up.

Sojourn in Cincinnati

Life brings me to Cincinnati, Ohio, where for five months I am working as an education intern at the Cincinnati Nature Center. On any given day of work, you may find me leading school programs, hauling firewood, feeding snakes, working the center's front desk, tapping sugar maples, playing with preschoolers...you get the idea. It is a varied (and invariably fun) gig. What follows is an anthology of my photos from my first month of work.

Intransigence. 

The business card of a Pileated Woodpecker

Thaw.

 

Freeze.

Cincinnati Nature Center's intern crew. I am honored to work with these talented folks.

Temporary immortality.

Turkey Tail (Trametes versicolor)

An Eastern Gray Squirrel's business card.

Intricacy.

Symphony in Grey Minor

Hairy vine, no friend of mine. Poison Ivy (Toxicodendron radicans)

Adjusting to a new area's avifauna is always a fun challenge. In this case, the differences are subtle--but, don't be fooled, the 238 miles (yes, I checked on Google) that separate Cincinnati from Grand Rapids are sufficient to produce discrepancies in the bird life. A few species (e.g., Carolina Chickadee, Black Vulture) don't occur in Michigan (at least, not commonly). Others are much more common here in winter than they are in Michigan. This is true for Eastern Towhees--I can easily see eight in a day here, while a winter towhee in Michigan would be remarkable. There are plenty of other examples--Field Sparrow, Winter Wren, Hermit Thrush.

More to come. Hopefully.