The Everyday Wild

Insignificance

2011-08-22T14:47:00.000-07:00

At 4 pm on Saturday, I stepped out of my house and headed off into the neighborhood on my daily after-work walk. Saturday is the last day of my work week, and as I started my walk I was feeling the kind of peace that I imagine most working folks feel when a few days of freedom are stretched out before them. With each progressive step, I shed a little bit of the stress that I had picked up over the preceding five days, and by the time I had traveled about a mile I was feeling calm and reasonably centered.

That day I felt compelled to walk a route that I rarely travel, down a steeply-inclined, well-forested road that lacks sidewalks. My mind wandered as I trudged down the hill, and I wasn't even aware that I had tuned out my surroundings until movement at my feet snapped me back to reality and the present moment. Before my eyes focused my mind had already identified the movement as belonging to a ground feeding bird, and I had also already identified the movement as abnormal due to both proximity and pattern. As my eyes focused and the details resolved, a series of thoughts came in rapid succession, "American Robin...no tail feathers...left wing drooping...left eye partially closed...dried blood on wing and head...likely cat attack victim...f@#$!"

The profanity came as automatically as the rest of my thoughts, and it was in no way directed at the bird or cats. It was directed at people who let their cats roam free in the world with no regard for the safety of their pet or for the wild animals that their pets are likely to kill or injure. After more than 16 years of working with injured wild animals, a staggering number of which have been injured by domestic cats, my tolerance for this completely preventable cause of wildlife injury has been utterly spent. In addition, as a cat lover that has seen countless cats in my neighborhood suffer and die due to the laissez-faire attitudes of their supposed guardians, I feel a surge of anger anytime I am faced with evidence of an unprotected domestic feline.

My initial surge of anger quickly passed as I redirected my thoughts toward how best to help the victim that was before me. Droopy wing or not, she still might have been able to fly, and I wouldn't know whether or not I could help her until I tested her ability to escape. I crouched down and made a quick movement toward the robin with one outstretched hand. She spread her wings and flapped hard, but she gained no lift from the effort. She managed some forward movement by pushing off with her legs, but the movement was arrested as she weakly bounced off of a thick tangle of ivy growing alongside the road. Assuming this might happen, my left hand enveloped her immediately with a technique known as the "bird bander's hold". She struggled briefly against the restraint, calling out more in fear than in defiance, and then she relaxed and fell silent.

A quick examination of the robin uncovered multiple, serious lacerations. Her eye was clearly damaged, although to what extent I could not be certain, and the trailing edge of her left wing had a blood clot that stretched nearly the entire length of her humerus. Although the bone felt like it was intact, the amount of bruising and dried blood present gave me serious doubt that the robin would ever fly again. The anger that I had felt upon my initial sighting now turned to sadness for the tiny being that was in my hand. Her injuries were at least 24 hours old, and it was likely that an infection of pasturella or some other bacteria that is abundant in cat saliva was already setting in. Even if her injuries were not fatal, this infection most likely would be. I carried her the mile back to my house as quickly as I could, and when I arrived I transferred her to a dark but well-ventilated box and immediately drove the 45 minutes back to my place of employment to get her either the care or the humane release from suffering that she needed.

On the way home from the wildlife center I reflected on what I had just experienced. As a biologist, I was taught to believe that one individual among a population of millions is insignificant; that we should not get hung up on the fate of one but on the overall health of the many. While this reasoning may be sound from the standpoint of population viability, it would require that I give up a fundamental piece of my humanity to fully embrace it. When I met that robin, she was definitely one individual among millions, but she was not insignificant. She was a fellow living being that was suffering and needed help. If I had passed her by, I would not have been confirming that she was an insignificant individual in a much larger population but, in my opinion, I would have been confirming that I was.

Change of Pace

2011-07-09T23:10:00.000-07:00

After rising with the sun this morning, I headed for my favorite patch of fireweed at a Seattle area park. I had been anxious to visit the patch since a single fireweed plant in my backyard opened its first pink blossoms almost two weeks ago. The fireweed patch is beautiful in its own right, but it is more than just the flower that lures me back year after year. The fireweed acts as a stage, on and above which a great drama plays out. Darting among the green leaves and pink blossoms are flashes of green, white, black and reddish-brown, occasionally punctuated with flashes of brilliant red iridescence. The whole area is literally abuzz with activity, and at times I can become dizzy trying to keep track of it all.

The main players on the fireweed stage are juvenile Anna’s and Rufous Hummingbirds. Occasionally an adult will pop up in the mix, but for the most part the area is dominated by rowdy youngsters vying for totally supremacy of the best blossoms in the patch. There are constant dive-bombings followed by erratic chases. The buzzing and trilling of wings fills the air. One moment a long curved bill is inserted into a flower, the next moment it is being used like a rapier in a fencing match. I occasionally try to capture the activity through the lens of my camera, but mostly I just stand and take it all in with my senses. As I stood in the patch this morning, watching the spectacular aerial ballet above me, my eye was suddenly drawn to unexpected movement at a much lower altitude. I looked down among the slender-leaved stems of the fireweed plants and found that a less frenetic, but no less interesting player had just arrived on the stage.

A Pacific Chorus Frog was working his way through the fireweed patch, presumably in search of a meal. The fireweed leaves were just strong enough to bear his weight, though they still bent considerably under the load. The frog was traversing the plants mostly by walking, but I am quite sure it was his landing after a jump that had caused the initial movement that drew my attention. Having just been immersed in the high-speed world of the hummingbirds above, I found the slow, deliberate movements of the frog almost hypnotic. For several moments I forgot about everything else and focused my full attention on the fascinating, sticky-toed hunter.

My trance was broken as two battling mini-birds buzzed by within a foot of my face. Their fight continued as they rounded a snowberry bush and disappeared from view. Three more birds buzzed by in quick succession, and for several minutes I was drawn back into the air around and just above the blossoms at the top of the fireweed plants. By the time my mind turned back to the unassuming amphibian making his way through the lower leaves, he was nowhere to be found. No movement in the plants betrayed his direction of travel. Wherever he was off to, I felt extremely fortunate to have spent even a short time in his presence.

Reaffirmation

2010-12-09T16:32:00.000-08:00

A Varied Thrush could be heard softly calling from an alder tree in Seattle’s Schmitz Preserve this afternoon. The bird was very animated, hopping from branch to branch, looking in all different directions and alternating between robin-like chatter and a call that sounded like a truncated version of the species’ airy, single-note mating call. As I stood below the bird I was struck by how much this one individual’s voice added to the life of the forest. Moments before, I could hear branches and dried leaves rustling in the wind, and the trickle of a nearby stream, but the thrush’s contribution added a new dimension to what had already been a beautiful chorus. His voice would have been music to my ears no matter the circumstances surrounding our meeting, but my emotional response to his calls was heightened by my awareness of just how close he had come to being silenced forever.

The thrush that was calling above me was one of the tens, if not hundreds of millions of songbirds that are attacked by free roaming house cats in our country every year. When I first met him, his body was riddled with scratches and puncture wounds. Some of his feathers were disheveled and/or broken while others were simply missing. He was a mess, but he was one of the lucky ones. He survived the attack. He received treatment for his wounds, and antibiotics to stave off infection. He was kept in a protected environment while he healed and grew in new feathers. When he was strong again, and ready, I returned him to his home. He got a second chance that millions of wild animals that encounter outdoor house cats never get.

And to be clear, the cats are in no way to blame for the loss of these wild animals. The blame lies squarely on the shoulders of the humans that allow their pets to roam free, or that turn a blind eye when they encounter stray or feral cats in the world at large. The cats are as much victims as the wildlife, often dying prematurely from accidents or disease, or becoming prey to predators larger and more capable than themselves.

As I stood in the forest and listened to the thrush’s beautiful voice, I wondered how many other voices within the range of my hearing had been silenced forever by free-roaming cats. In the same moment I wondered how many neglected or abandoned cats were suffering nearby. As I walked out of the park I reaffirmed my commitment to doing everything within my power to speak up for all of the victims in this scenario, and to keep helping the individual animals I encounter in my everyday life. If you are reading this, I sincerely hope you will do the same.

The Comforts of Home

2010-11-19T17:01:00.000-08:00

I climbed out of bed when my alarm sounded at 5:20 am this morning, but I had already been awake for at least an hour. Ordinarily this kind of pre-dawn insomnia can be attributed to the three little people of the feline persuasion with whom my wife and I live. But this morning it was my own restless mind that was keeping me awake. I kept envisioning an endless expanse of rolling waves under a gray sky. This vision was no metaphor. I believed that what I was seeing, or at least a close approximation thereof, existed in the real world, and I was trying to imagine what it must be like to feel as comfortable there as I do in my own home.

The reason for my early morning musings was simple; I would be spending much of my day with five beings who do feel right at home in an endless expanse of waves. Nearly six weeks ago these amazing creatures had been separated from their home. Blown from the sea by a windstorm, they were found on the sandy shore where they faced starvation, predation and all of the other dangers present to an animal removed from its element. But their story did not end on the beach. Instead of death, they encountered compassion, and through long hours of diligent care their health and strength were restored. My job today was to give them the last piece of their life that was still missing, and before noon “freedom” would be added to their list of things that had been restored.

Less than two hours after my alarm sounded, I was in heavy traffic on I-5 South in Seattle. Five boxes were secured in the bed of the truck that I was driving, a canopy keeping the boxes’ occupants safe from wind and noise. After driving for three hours, I made one stop out of necessity; my early morning insomnia had turned into late morning somnolence, and I needed a little caffeine to ensure that my passengers and I arrived safely at our destination. The last hour of the trip went by quickly, and I am not certain whether to attribute my increased alertness to the warm beverage I purchased or the excitement at nearing my destination. When I arrived and opened the back of the truck I discovered that my passengers were feeling much more alert as well. They had been still when I checked on them during my pit stop, but now they were scratching and jostling around inside their boxes with apparent excitement. I can safely say that their excitement had nothing to do with caffeinated beverages. The more likely cause of their stimulation was the sound of crashing waves and the smell of salt air. They were nearly home.

The sky was as gray as I had envisioned earlier in the morning, and a steady drizzle was falling. I had come prepared with rain gear and hip waders, but my passengers would need no such special protection. I somehow managed to pick up all five boxes at once, and I carried them up and over a large sand dune and down to the beach below. I was facing a large, crescent-shaped bay. The eastern end of the bay was being pounded by six-foot waves, but the western edge was sheltered from the Pacific Ocean by an enormous sand and rock breakwater. I chose to release my charges there, as much for my own safety as theirs.

I opened a box to reveal a very alert and anxious Northern Fulmar. As I lifted the bird from his transport box and carried him out into the water he made no attempt to bite. In fact, so focused was he on the expanse of water before him, it was as if I wasn’t even there. I had seen this animal almost daily for the past several weeks, but as he left my hand and settled onto the water I realized that I had really only seen a part of who he is. This point was driven home as the fulmar opened his wings and began to run on the surface of the water, lifting off and soaring low over the waves with a grace reminiscent of his much larger cousin the albatross.

One by one I opened each of the four remaining boxes and carried the fulmars they contained to the water. All of the birds were gripped with the same excitement, and all took flight very soon after hitting the water’s surface. Three of them made wide, arcing flights that brought them up over the beach, before turning into the wind and flying far out into the bay. It was difficult to track the five gray bodies against the gray water and sky as they moved farther from shore, but when I last saw them they were heading west beyond the northern tip of the breakwater. There was nothing in that direction but open sky and endless ocean. I reflected again on my mental exercise from earlier in the morning, and I thought of the change I had just witnessed in the fulmars. I smiled as I thought about them shedding the stress of captivity with every mile they put between themselves and the shore. I hoped that they would feel as at peace making their journey seaward as I would making my journey back to my own home.

A Piece of the Puzzle

2010-11-08T15:43:00.000-08:00

Three years ago I photographed something I had never seen before- a female green shield bug that was laying her eggs on the wall of the house I was renting in Edmonds, Washington. I was completely amazed by the sight, and I was as riveted by this encounter as most people are by the sight of a soaring eagle or foraging bear. In my mind, insects are just as interesting as other wildlife, and the fact that so much of their lives occurs completely below the radar of human perception makes a rare glimpse into their world all the more intriguing. I visited those eggs on a daily basis, waiting with baited breath to see what would emerge from those tiny, conical capsules.

After two and a half weeks of waiting, the eggs hatched. What emerged looked very little like the green and brown insect that had left the small life pods behind. The baby shield bugs were shiny and completely black. They shined like tiny pieces of obsidian in the afternoon sun. They stayed close to their egg shells for several days, but eventually the young insects dispersed to make their own way in the world. I was left to wonder how these small black dots, no larger than the period at the end of a sentence, eventually grew to fully flighted adults with the ornate green and brown patterning of their mother. While I still don't have all of the answers, I did discover one piece of the puzzle in a recent encounter with an older juvenile shield bug.

I still have no idea how long it takes for an infant shield bug to make the journey to adulthood, but I did encounter one recently that had completed half the journey. He or she was a combination of the green and brown pattern exhibited by the mother shield bug and the sleek, obsidian black of the juveniles. If this one individual could be assumed to represent the pattern of all green shield bugs, it seems that the transformation to adulthood starts at the animal's rear and progresses forward toward the head. I have no idea how old this semi-mature individual was, or how much longer his or her journey to maturity would be, but I was thrilled with the encounter none-the-less.

As a naturalist, every new experience I have with the natural world makes me feel like I have discovered one more piece of life's puzzle. As different as a human may seem from a green shield bug, we are all a part of the same process, and of the same natural system from which all life has arisen. We have a shared genetic history that is far more important than the narrow focus of human geopolitical history. I can't help but think that any insight I gain into the lives of the living creatures around me ultimately helps me to expand my understanding of who and what I am. Every piece of the puzzle is important, and although a lifetime of searching will never give me a clear view of the entire picture, I am compelled to learn as much as I can about the universe in which I live during the limited time in which I am here. Today that means paying attention to a tiny green and black bug on the wall of a building. Tomorrow that means remaining open and observant to whatever wonders the universe sees fit to send my way.

Right On Cue

2010-07-27T12:40:00.000-07:00

As my wife and I walked through the woods in Seattle’s Discovery Park yesterday, we both had our attention focused on a large Madrona tree that grows on the edge of a steep bluff sloping down to Puget Sound. The tree is a favorite of the local Bald Eagles, and we were hoping one of the birds would be waiting there to greet us. As we neared a turn in the trail that afforded a better view of the tree, we could see that its branches were empty. We were about to move on when, as if on cue, a large female eagle appeared and landed in the tree.

The eagle must have come from the beach below. I surmised this not only from the fact that she had flown up to the tree from below, but also because she had brought a large fish head with her. The head looked like it had belonged to a salmon at one time, but now it clearly belonged to the eagle. Even the nearby crows, vocal though they were, did not seem anxious to challenge the eagle’s possession of the head at anything other than a respectful distance. The eagle paid neither the crows nor us any attention and simply set about the task of deconstructing the fish head.

The fish head had clearly been cut from its body. The human that had caught the fish had apparently discarded the head considering it to not be worth eating. The eagle disagreed. We were close enough to hear the sounds as the eagle grasped the fish head firmly in her talons and picked apart both flesh and bone with the sharp point of her beak. Bit by bit the remains of the fish disappeared down the eagle’s throat, and some of the pieces were so large and jagged I was amazed at how easily they went down.

The eagle did not linger after the last of the fish was gone. She simply turned on her perch and pushed off effortlessly into the air. After she left, we continued along the trail wondering what other encounters the day would bring.

You Smell

2010-07-13T17:40:00.000-07:00

I spent a few hours this morning standing in between a patch of Fireweed and a patch of Snowberry in Seattle’s Discovery Park. Both of these plant species are in bloom right now, and the local nectar enthusiasts have taken notice. The area surrounding the spot in which I stood this morning was literally abuzz with activity. Much of the buzzing was coming from Rufous and Anna’s Hummingbirds as they jockeyed for position at the choicest blossoms. Bumblebees added their own, quieter drone to the mix as they did their best to visit the flowers without getting caught up in the ongoing avian conflict. Many times I nearly became a casualty of the hummingbird war myself when aerial battles buzzed so close to my head that I could feel the breeze given off by the bird’s tiny, rapidly-beating wings.

While enjoying the air show I heard the rustle of dry plant material coming from inside a tangle of snowberry bushes about 15 feet northwest of my position. The noise continued for a few moments, and the bushes above the sound’s point of origin were being shaken in rhythm with the sound. The movement crept from the middle of the bush outward toward the edge, and I did my best to peer into the shadows at the bottom of the bush while not shifting my position or making any other movement or noise. As I watched, a small, rounded, furry brown head with beady eyes poked out of the bush. Aplodontia rufa, the Mountain Beaver had come calling, and she was carrying a mouthful of freshly cut vegetation.

In the interest of accuracy, I should have actually said that it was I who had come calling, rather than the Mountain Beaver. I knew the spot I was standing in well, and Mountain Beaver burrows and sign surrounded it. But the burrows’ inhabitants had never made a daylight appearance up until this point, so I was delighted to meet one of them. The little Aplodontia disappeared back into the snowberry bush and, judging by the shaking and rustling, continued to gather vegetation. I went back to watching and photographing any hummingbirds that came close enough to enter my viewfinder. A minute or so passed and then the rustling in the bushes behind me abruptly stopped. I slowly turned my head to investigate.

I thought that the Mountain Beaver might have re-entered her burrow with her load of local, organic produce. The species usually has many different entrances and exits to the same burrow system, so I assumed that she had gone into a hole that was somewhere under the Snowberry Bush. Apparently, this thinking was correct, because as I was looking around, I saw her cautiously exit a burrow that was only about a foot away from my right hiking boot.

Despite her close proximity, the Mountain Beaver’s poor eyesight and hearing was clearly making it hard for her to get a fix on me. Still, her cautious manner told me that she was aware that something she should be concerned about was nearby. Her best senses are those of smell and touch, and since it is more prudent to rely on the former when danger is involved she began sniffing in earnest to see what news the breeze could bring her. Her nose twitched noticeably faster as her head swung in my direction. Living in a busy city park as she does, human is undoubtedly a very familiar scent to her; however, smelling one from a foot away was apparently not something she found comforting.

The Mountain Beaver turned quickly and hurried back down into her burrow. Two seconds later, her head appeared at another entrance hole about four feet away from the one she had just entered. She sniffed again, and then once more retreated to the safety of her underground home. I decided it was time to leave. The Mountain Beaver had been a far more gracious host to me than most humans would to an uninvited houseguest, and as any good houseguest should, I know when I have worn out my welcome. I thanked her for her hospitality and left her to finish her grocery shopping in peace.

Dinner Guest

2010-07-09T21:36:00.000-07:00

As I stood in my kitchen cooking dinner earlier this evening my eyes were drawn to movement on the window screen above the sink. The pattern of the movement was familiar, and I quickly recognized it as belonging to one of my favorite groups of arachnids, the jumping spiders. When I focused on the spider herself, I found that she was rather large by local jumping spider standards, and a fair bit darker than I am used to seeing as well. Needless to say, she had my full attention, and I was immediately sucked into her world as she patrolled the screen in search of a meal.

I grabbed my camera and took a few photos of her. It was clear that she was aware of my presence, and I think that is one thing that has always fascinated me about these particular spiders. Most spiders seem to react with panic when they realize something large and potentially threatening is nearby. They jump off their webs trailing their safety line behind them or they run as quickly as they can for cover. The jumping spiders I have encountered, including the individual I saw today, always turn to face the unknown. If they see a finger approaching they either back cautiously away or throw caution to the wind and jump on it. Once they have landed, they go about their business as if they are simply walking on another inanimate piece of the earth. They are intriguing little animals and they actually have a lot of personality.

As I was photographing the spider on my window screen, a house fly landed about a foot below her. The spider saw the fly immediately and a tension that looked a lot like excitement gripped her body. Her movement pattern changed, and she closed the distance between her and the fly in a series of short, quick forward bursts. She closed within about a half inch of the fly and then pounced. Her jump was so fast that to my eyes it looked as if she had just teleported a distance that was roughly twice the length of her body. One second she was a half-inch away from the fly, and the next she was directly over it, holding it in her jaws.

The fly struggled weakly for a moment or two, but it was clear that the spider’s venom was quickly taking hold. Once the fly was subdued, the spider climbed upward. She disappeared into the tracks at the top of the window to eat her meal in private. It was now time for my meal as well, so I left her to enjoy hers in peace.

Rude Awakening

2010-06-29T18:14:00.000-07:00

After spending a few hours photographing herons and osprey along the Edmonds waterfront on Sunday, I returned home to relax and sort through my photos. It was sunny outside, and this fact was not lost on my trio of tabbies- Henry, Oliver and Otis. As the three cats peered through the lowest windows on the French door that opens onto their large outside enclosure, Otis let out a mournful yowl that drew my attention to the fact that I was being an extremely cruel kitty parent. I got up from my computer desk, let the cats out into their enclosure and returned to my photos. A few minutes later I heard Oliver make a sound that indicated both excitement and nervousness, and I immediately went outside to investigate. I discovered that a neighbor had come to visit. Standing outside the protective walls of the cat enclosure was an adult female raccoon.

While people are often surprised to see a raccoon out and about during the day, it is actually not that uncommon. At this time of year female raccoons have much higher energy needs as they nurse and care for their growing young. The raccoon outside the enclosure was a female I know well. She has raised young in our neighborhood each of the five summers that my wife and I have lived here. As she stood up on her hind legs on Sunday, I could see that she was in the process of nursing the sixth brood that she has produced since I first made her acquaintance. Surviving all of the dangers of an urban environment long enough to produce at least six litters is an impressive accomplishment for a raccoon. It is even more impressive when you consider the fact that this female raccoon has been blind in her right eye the entire time I have known her. Her good eye still serves her well enough that when I pulled out my camera she became wary of the strange object I was pointing at her and she retreated to a large fir tree at the back corner of our yard.

As the raccoon climbed the fir, she passed an old wooden nest box. I had attached the box to the tree about three years ago for a Northern Flying Squirrel that was released in our yard. The squirrel had not used the box after her release, but I had kept it in place just in case there were any other takers. Until Sunday I believed there had been none.

The raccoon climbed up to a branch about 10 feet higher than the nest box and then stopped. She looked down and her nose twitched. She came back down the tree as if she had a renewed purpose. She made a beeline for the nest box and perched on top of it. She proceeded to reach inside, and I thought she was going to pull out some morsel of food that had been stashed by one of many resident gray squirrels. Instead, she pulled out a sleeping flying squirrel.

For a fleeting moment my mind grasped with excitement the fact that a flying squirrel was using the box, but present tense quickly became past tense as the predator/prey interaction that had given me this realization quickly concluded in favor of the predator. The only solace for the squirrel was that he was sound asleep when he was plucked from the box and had only barely regained consciousness before it was taken from him permanently. He let out one surprised squeak and was gone. The raccoon relocated to a nearby cedar to begin the work of converting the squirrel into sustenance for her offspring, and I was left alone to grapple with the inevitable mix of emotions that comes from witnessing such a life and death struggle.

The Impostor

2010-06-17T17:35:00.000-07:00

As I left work today I had take a trail through a wooded portion of the property to reach my car that was parked on an adjacent cul-de-sac. I was tired and my mind was wandering, so I was much less attuned to my wooded surroundings than is expected of someone bearing the title of naturalist. Lost in my thoughts, I gradually became aware that I was hearing a voice, and before I consciously decided to do so I began to attempt to imitate that voice.

I don’t know if it’s an obsessive/compulsive tendency or just a side-effect of being a vocal animal, but I often find myself imitating bird calls and other animal noises that I hear. In this case, I was hearing a call that was extremely high pitched, and as I continued to walk and think, I was absentmindedly using my tongue to make whistling noises that approximated the call. Every time I heard the call, I imitated it, still only semi-conscious of the fact that I was doing so. I was finally pulled out of my mind and back into my immediate surroundings when the call came back to me so loud that it sounded like it was right next to my ear.

I stopped and looked to my right. My eyes were drawn to movement on a tree trunk just 4 feet away. A Brown Creeper was foraging on the trunk at eye level, and as I watched he began to work his way slowly upward. After moving vertically for about five feet, the creeper paused and let out the distinct vocalization that I had just been trying to imitate. He seemed to pause for a moment as if to say, “That’s how it’s done!” and then he disappeared into the forest. I walked the rest of trail in silence, leaving the singing to the more refined voice that was now fading into the distance.

Late Afternoon With A Leviathan

2010-06-14T13:19:00.000-07:00

My wife and I had the pleasure of joining her Uncle Robert on a late afternoon tour of Puget Sound around Whidbey Island yesterday. Robert had seen a Gray Whale feeding in the area in recent days and, although we knew the odds were probably against it, we all hoped we would spot a tell-tale spout as we motored along the shore of the island. A strong westerly made the waters choppy, and parts of the tour were a bit jarring as our small boat was tossed and turned by the waves. After cruising slowly around a calm bay for about 40 minutes, and having great views of River Otters, Harbor Seals, Bald Eagles and Pigeon Guillemots, we decided to head for home.

We crossed back over a windblown stretch of water and turned into another calm bay to get out of the wind. Robert was giving me a lesson in operating the boat on this trip, so I took the wheel as we headed north to return to the harbor. Shortly after I took the wheel I saw a plume of mist erupt into the air about 300 yards dead ahead. I was so excited that I don’t even remember what came out of my mouth in the moment. Whatever I said, Julie and Robert understood immediately and some rapid shuffling occurred on the boat. Robert took the wheel and steered us out away from the shore and out of the path of the whale. We wanted to observe the giant without disturbing him, and we also wanted to make sure we were obeying the federal law that states that you must stay at least 100 yards away from these amazing creatures. As Robert maneuvered us into a safe viewing position, I grabbed my camera and did my best to take some clear photos of a moving target while standing on a boat that was pitching and rolling dramatically.

We all watched as the whale worked his way up the shoreline. He was feeding, rolling on his side to suck up shrimp-filled sand and sediment off the bottom and then rolling back to expel silty water through the baleen which filtered out his meal. Half of his tail often popped above he surface as he rolled, and his blowhole made regular appearances as he exhaled and grabbed a fresh breath before submerging again. He was clearly a young whale, but even though he was only about ½ grown he still dwarfed our small boat. We watched him from a respectful distance for some time, and he was still working his way south, feeding in the shallows when we decided to part company with him. We talked excitedly about what we had just witnessed all the way back to the marina.

The encounter with the whale had a surreal, dreamlike quality. It’s hard for the mind to grasp the sheer size of the animal even when it is right before you, and the grace with which the whale moves in spite of that size seems magical. I almost feel as though I saw a mythological creature yesterday in the waters of Puget Sound, and there was a point in our history when myths and legends may have been the only places left where the great whales could be found. Fortunately, that did not come to pass, and the world is still blessed with these beings that capture our imaginations like no others can.

The Root of the Animosity

2010-06-05T20:01:00.000-07:00

Many people seem to be puzzled by the apparent hostility that crows exhibit toward hawks, falcons, eagles, owls and other assorted birds of prey. I have even heard people go to the extreme of saying that they “hate crows” after seeing an energetic mob of these corvids dive-bombing a bird belonging to a genus that is more revered by the viewer. What they don’t realize is that they are only seeing part of the picture. If you watch both parties involved in this ongoing conflict for a long enough period of time you will soon discover that crows are only exhibiting due diligence by responding en masse to drive raptors out of their territories.

Less than a half hour ago, my wife and I saw the side of corvid/raptor relations that is missed by the casual observer. As we took a late afternoon walk in our neighborhood our eyes were drawn skyward by a cacophony of caws sounding out in alarm. A Bald Eagle passed about 100 feet over our heads. At least 20 crows were in hot pursuit, some close enough that they were making the eagle take evasive action as they repeatedly dive-bombed her back and tail.

As the eagle approached a tall fir tree she flapped three times to pick up speed. She momentarily put some distance between herself and her pursuers, and as she passed the top of the fir she quickly banked right and, swinging around in a broad circle, angled slightly down. She landed hard in the branches about 10 feet from the top of the tree, and the fury of the crows intensified by an order of magnitude as she did so. The eagle was only on the tree for a second or two, and she launched back into the air just as the angry crow mob descended on her. As the eagle cleared the tree, her talons came into view. They held the body of a nestling crow. The young crow’s head dangled lifelessly as the eagle gained speed and headed off to the northwest with the adult crows still in full pursuit.

As the eagle disappeared from our sight, some of the crows began to break off their pursuit. One of them circled back and disappeared into the upper branches of the tree from which the eagle had snatched her prize. I wondered if this had been the eagle’s first visit to the nest. If not, I suspect that she will return as she likely has young of her own in need of food. If she does, she will receive the same angry, frantic reception as she did today, and I would hope that whoever happens to be watching will hate neither crow nor eagle for their role in the dispute.

The Wild Inside

2010-05-23T12:03:00.000-07:00

After returning from a nice breakfast out this morning, I was hanging my coat on a hook by the front door when a tiny speck on the wall caught my eye. My eye was not drawn to this speck because we keep our house meticulously clean or anything. Between my wife’s art and my photography our walls are littered with dark spots in the form of nail holes, scratches from frames, and other picture-hanging associated blotches. No, what drew my attention to this particular speck was the fact that it was moving…well, that and the fact that it had pinchers.

I climbed up on a chair and got my eyes closer to my newly discovered housemate. She was a pseudoscorpion- a harmless little arachnid that earns her keep around the house by eating mites, gnats and occasionally something as large as a housefly. The pseudoscorpion was slowly working her way along the edge of the seam between wall and ceiling, seemingly following sensory information that was being picked up by her pinchers.

It may seem odd to some, but I feel nearly as much excitement discovering an incredible little being like this in my home as I do encountering a bear or other “super-charismatic mega-vertebrate” out in a wilderness setting. I mean, c’mon! A creature the size of a pinhead with pinchers the size of the period at the end of a sentence is patrolling my house for mites and no-see-ums? How bizarre, and how utterly cool is that?

In my opinion she’s a super-charismatic micro-invertebrate, and she helps make the wild inside every bit as fascinating as the wild outside my door.

Misunderstanding

2010-05-17T17:57:00.000-07:00

For the past several days, it has literally been raining crows in my yard. A mated pair built a nest in the large fir tree in front of my house, and this week their young have started to fledge. As is usually the case with fledgling crows, they have been jumping out of the nest before they are fully capable of flight. One by one they have been making their little leaps of faith, after which they end up on the ground looking stunned and bewildered as if they are amazed to discover how large the world beyond the nest really is. Since the nest tree is not far from the road, the young crows have been landing in dangerous territory. In order to give them a fighting chance of making it to adulthood, my wife and I have been picking them up and moving them into the lower branches of a cedar tree in the backyard. Although it has proven successful at keeping the fledglings out of the road, this course of action has done nothing to endear Julie and I to the parents of these youngsters.

So now whenever Julie or I leave the house we are met with an angry chorus of caws and a rain of small twigs and other debris from above. There is no way to tell the adult crows that we were only trying to help, and that their offspring have a much better chance of survival now that they are not 10 steps (or hops) away from paved instant death. It is a classic case of misunderstanding, but one with an interspecies twist. Fortunately, crows are not capable of breaking off large enough branches to do any real damage when they drop them on our heads, so the barrage from above is more amusing than dangerous. And to be honest, since I regularly drive my car and am in part responsible for creating the danger away from which Julie and I were moving the baby crows, perhaps I deserve a twig or two dropped on my head to remind me of the impacts of my choices on the wild creatures around me. All I know is that as I sit here and write this I can hear the familiar, turkey-like noise of a young crow being fed by his parents coming from the cedar tree in my back yard. That is worth far more than any inconvenience having a twig or two dropped on my head could possibly cause.

Recycling

2010-05-15T19:31:00.000-07:00

Nearly every day, my wife and I take a walk along the same route through the neighborhood surrounding our home. This has allowed us to become familiar with many of our neighbors, both human and non-human. Our walks are frequently paused for a moment, or diverted to the opposite side of the road in order to give a wild neighbor the space he or she needs to feel comfortable. Shortly after beginning today’s walk we stopped and then crossed the road so as not to frighten off a male robin that was attempting to subdue a large earthworm. The bird stopped for a moment when he saw us approach, but he continued with what he was doing as soon as we showed him that we weren’t interested in capturing him or usurping his prize. It was no real inconvenience to us to alter our path, but it would have been more than an inconvenience both to the adult robin and the babies that were waiting for him to return with a meal if Julie and I had taken the less considerate route.

The unpleasant reality of walking along a road is that you are continually reminded of the impact of human transportation on both our domestic companions and our wild neighbors. We have come across many cats, opossums, crows, squirrels and other animals that happened to cross the pavement at just the wrong moment. We generally move the carcasses off the road so they don’t attract new victims into the path of cars, and the bodies slowly disappear due to the combined efforts of scavengers, insects, bacteria and time.

For the past week, we have been seeing the steady progression of decay in the bodies of three very young opossums that are lying on the grass near the road about a half-mile into our walking route. Judging by their size, the unfortunate youngsters were likely still riding around on mom’s back just before their demise. I have imagined many different scenarios for their final moments, and all of them leave me feeling more than a little sad for what they must have experienced.

As Julie and I were returning from our walk today, I was momentarily lost in my thoughts. Suddenly, Julie stopped in her tracks and motioned to me to do the same. I looked up to see that we had nearly arrived at the spot in which the remains of the three opossums lay. Standing on one of the opossums was a Black-capped Chickadee. As we watched, the chickadee began plucking fur from the dried skin of the opossum. After a minute or so of determined effort, the chickadee’s beak was completely obscured by the puff of soft, white hairs she had collected. She would use this fur to line her nest, and it would once again act as insulation for young, growing bodies. Although sadness remained for the opossum’s premature loss of life, the thought of hatchling chickadees sitting in a comfortable, warm nest brought a smile to my face.

Two Worlds

2010-03-20T11:15:00.000-07:00

I re-posted “Welcoming the Day” in my last blog entry because I had once again woken up to the vocalizations of a Band-tailed Pigeon and I had a strong recollection of the first morning that had happened. The same event played out once again this morning, but the pigeon was not alone. After drifting easily and pleasantly to consciousness with the soft cooing sound drifting down from above, I started to hear the intermittent, single-note, metallic sounding whistle of a Varied Thrush coming from somewhere nearby. He was answered by another thrush whistling back at him from an undetermined distance. I might have gotten out of bed to investigate, but I discovered that I was trapped.

My 16-pound cat Oliver lay on my left side, snuggled up against my body on top of the blankets. My 17-pound cat Henry was on my right, also snuggled against my side and also on top of the blankets. I was firmly pinned to the mattress as the cats’ combined weight pressed down on the blanket on both sides of me. My third cat, Otis, weighing in at a mere 14 pounds, noticed that my eyes were open and jumped up onto the bed. He proceeded to lay down on top of my legs, ruling out the possibility of my sliding up and out of the sheets and escaping from the opening at the top.

As the two-part choir in the yard was joined by a third, cawing voice, I laid my hands on top of Oliver and Henry and began to scratch their backs. In unison, they began to purr. Henry emitted his deep, satisfied rumbling and Oliver settled into his slightly more airy version of kitty bliss. Sandwiched between them it felt like I was getting a light massage on both of my flanks. I looked down at Otis who was looking back at me with half-closed, very content eyes. I let my head fall back onto the pillow, and dozed off again with sounds both wild and domestic ringing in my ears.

Welcoming the Day (repost)

2010-03-18T07:05:00.000-07:00

I looked at my alarm clock exactly one minute before it was set to go off this morning. I quickly reached over and turned it off to spare myself from the racket that evil machine makes. I intended to get up at that point, but the room was chilly and the bed was warm. I started to drift. Just as consciousness was slipping away, a comforting noise floated down to me from above. I thought it was a dream at first, but as it repeated I started to come back to my senses. The part of my brain that is obsessed with identification and naming came back online and the sound I was hearing resonated with something in my memory. Before I was even fully aware of it, the words "Band-tailed Pigeon" danced across my mind and then the sound I was hearing became crystal clear. Recognition of the repeated, deep cooing sounds brought me fully awake in a way that was the complete opposite of what my alarm clock had in store for me. I did not wake up groggy and annoyed. I woke up with a smile, feeling at peace in the knowledge that a wild creature was in the cedar tree hanging over my roof, and he was welcoming the day with his version of a song.

Antagonism...

2010-03-14T17:11:00.000-07:00

The South Meadow at Discovery Park in Seattle was alive with avian activity today. Small flocks of House Finches flitted from tree to tree. Two Anna’s Hummingbirds engaged in aerial combat as they argued over territorial matters. Song Sparrows sang from low perches and robins foraged in the wide expanses of grass. As interesting as all of this business was, it was overshadowed by the boisterous presence of a large contingent of excited crows.

The sun was shining down on the meadow and had warmed the ground to the point at
which the resident ant population began to stir. The 50 or more crows that were present in the trees scattered about the meadow were taking turns flying down to the ground in smaller groups. These “mini-murders” were giving the ants some unwanted home modification assistance, poking and prodding the ant mounds with their bills and generally making a mess of them. The unfortunate ants that were responding to the attack on their colony were either being eaten or duped into assisting the attacking crows with their personal hygiene.

It has been hypothesized that crows and some other bird species intentionally rile up anthills to use the unwitting ants as a sort of anti-parasitic treatment. When angry ants bite, they release formic acid, which you can imagine is not a very pleasant substance. Since the birds’ feathers are dead tissue like our fingernails, the ants don’t cause them any pain when they latch onto their feathers and release the acid; However, the mites and lice that often live on bird’s feathers are encouraged to take up residence elsewhere when they suddenly find that their home has been acidified.

This theory of bird/ant interaction certainly seemed to fit with what I was seeing today at the park. Although the crows were definitely eating some of the ants, they were also lying down on the stirred up anthills and spreading their wings out on the ground as if to welcome the little feather-biters aboard. When I have witnessed this behavior in the past, I have even seen the ants clinging furiously to the crow’s wing feathers after the birds flew back up to a perch in a nearby tree.

Whatever the true extent of the relationship between crows and ants, their interactions are fascinating to observe. These “anting parties” are clearly significant social events for the birds. Their jovial demeanor as they poke and prod the ant colonial stands out in stark contrast to the quiet desperation of the defending ants.

Eye of the Beholder

2009-12-29T15:04:00.000-08:00

As I stood at the edge of a small estuarine inlet near Conway, WA, I looked out over a sparsely vegetated tideland toward the shimmering waters of Puget Sound. Beyond the jumble of drift logs, mud, crisscrossing sloughs and salt-tolerant plants, a cacophony of bird voices could be heard emanating from the open water. I could see the birds as well, although the intervening distance made my eyes perceive the mass of feathered bodies as a single large organism rather than thousands of individuals. Occasionally the voices were muffled by the sound of many pairs of large feet slapping loudly and repeatedly against the water’s surface. This was always followed by the distinct honks of airborne Trumpeter Swans approaching, passing overhead and then continuing inland to feed in the fertile fields of the Skagit Valley.

Trumpeter Swans are legally protected by both the State of Washington and the Federal Government. This protection allows the enormous, white birds to move from their night haven on the water to their daytime feeding grounds in relative safety. They have earned their free pass for the dubious distinction of having been nearly eradicated by overhunting and lead poisoning in the recent past. Watching Trumpeter Swans fly overhead, it boggles my mind that it took a legal decree to prevent humans from killing them until they existed no more. Is it that my sense of aesthetics is so different from my fellow humans, or is grace and beauty completely obscured when viewed through the sights of a gun?

As the sun rose higher in the sky, birds less protected than Trumpeter Swans began to make the journey inland to their feeding grounds. I had been hearing the concussive reports of shotguns since I had arrived in the Skagit Valley, and I had no reason to believe I would not see what I most wished I wouldn’t. Decoys littered the fields, and men in camouflage were encountered at every turn. But it was a particularly cruel twist of fate that the “preserve” in which I was standing, and in which no hunting was allowed, had an excellent view of the farm fields to the west where no such restrictions existed.

An enormous flock of Snow Geese took to the air. They gained altitude much more rapidly than the heavier-bodied Trumpeter Swans as they headed north toward their feeding grounds. When they reached the dike separating the farm field to the west from the tidelands beyond, they had reached a height that I believed no shotgun could reach. As the geese passed over the dike, their chorus of calls was temporarily drowned out by a series of explosions. Blast after blast came from the farm field, and I could hear the sound of shot slicing through the air as it traveled upward. After several seconds of this, with no sign of any bird being hit, I thought my original assumption of the safety of their altitude was correct. One last blast made clear the error of my judgment.

A goose on the outer limit of the formation suddenly faltered. Her wing, that only moments before had been solid white with a black tip, crumpled as a swath of red appeared and spread in the middle. Her forward momentum collapsed as she moved first in an arc, and then straight downward toward the ground below her. Her good wing flapped uselessly, while her broken wing trailed like a tangled and ineffective parachute behind her. Her eyes were wide open, and her beak opened and closed as she continued to draw breath after agonized breath while plummeting to the earth some 200 feet below. I watched her all the way down. She still lived when she passed out of sight behind the dike to the west, and I heard the muffled impact of her feathered body as it collided with solid ground. I hoped that noise had heralded the end of her suffering.

As camouflaged men with guns converged on the spot in which the goose had fallen, I turned to leave. On the way to the car I passed a group of four middle-aged men, all in camouflage, who had just watched the same event that I had witnessed. They looked off in the direction that the goose had fallen with broad smiles on their faces. The look I had seen in the eyes of the dying goose was still fresh in my mind, and the smiles on the faces of the men combined with the terrified look of the goose to create a disturbing paradoxical image. Now, a few days later, I still can’t shake the image. I have a feeling it will be with me for some time to come.

Winter Visitors

2009-12-15T16:58:00.000-08:00

For the past week, my yard has been full of avian activity. I opted against the usual fall practice of raking up fallen leaves and cedar fronds, not because of laziness, but because of a naturalist's contempt for the practice. Trees take up nutrients from the soil and when they drop their leaves, they return some of what they have borrowed. It's an elegant system, and one in which I would rather not interfere. Although my bi-pedal mammalian neighbors may not appreciate my stance on the matter, my bi-pedal avian neighbors certainly do.

The avian activity that I mentioned earlier has been directly related to my lack of yard maintenance. On a nearly daily basis I have looked out my back door to find a dozen or more Varied Thrushes picking energetically through the leaf litter in search of a meal. These birds spend their summers at higher altitude in the Cascade and Olympic Mountains. They feed and raise their young by picking through the litter on the forest floor for invertebrates and foraging a little higher for a variety of berries. In the fall they move to lower elevations to avoid heavy snowfall. It's much harder to pick through leaf litter when you have to dig through several feet of snow to reach it.

So imagine the disappointment a flock of thrushes must feel when they arrive in the lowlands to discover nothing but a bunch of yards that have been completely cleared of leaf litter. They aren't really worm-pullers like their close cousin the robin, so a vast sea of grass has no real appeal to them. They are forest birds and they need something that at least remotely resembles a forest floor. I figure the least I can do is make them feel welcome by leaving the table set on the little patch of earth for which I am responsible. In the end, it's a win-win situation for me and the birds. I don't have to rake the yard, and I don't feel any guilt from the neighbors because I look out and see a dozen gorgeous thrushes thanking me for not doing what society has come to expect. After all, I feel that the thrushes have a much better grasp on the natural order of things than do my neighbors with their immaculate lawns.

Night Flier

2009-12-03T17:08:00.001-08:00

I spent a few minutes after work last night wandering around in a greenbelt about four blocks from my house. It was pitch black, so I was navigating by flashlight. As I walked along the narrow trail that runs the length of the nicely wooded patch, I was carrying a small wooden box. The box had wire screens over its two access holes to prevent its occupant from exiting prematurely. There was no sound or feeling of movement from the box as I carried it, but I knew a tense little being was in there, waiting to see what would happen next.

As I moved deeper into the greenbelt, my flashlight beam fell on the broad trunk of a large Douglas Fir Tree. I walked to the base of the tree and shined the flashlight beam upward, making a note that there did not appear to be any whitewash or other signs that an owl might be perching in the tree on a regular basis. It was well over 100 feet tall, with plenty of thick greenery starting about 30 feet up. Shorter Big Leaf Maples, alders and cedars surrounded it. It would be a perfect launching point.

I stood in front of the tree and I positioned the flashlight so its beam lit up the trunk. Holding the box up in front of me, I slowly opened it and I suddenly felt a small decrease in its weight. A furry blur came to an abrupt stop in the beam of my flashlight, and I was face to face with a Northern Flying Squirrel that was now clinging to the trunk of the tree.

The squirrel paused for a moment as if the sudden feeling of freedom was a little overwhelming. I saw him clearly in that instant. I absorbed every detail of his velvety soft fur, the loose folds of skin between fore and hind limbs, the large nocturnal eyes and the horizontally flattened tail that would act as his rudder as he glided from tree to tree. He had been treated for a broken leg he had suffered in the jaws of a house cat, but looking at him now you would never suspect that he had spent the last several weeks in a state of convalescence. He was beautiful, intensely alert and radiating the electric energy of a lightning bolt as he absorbed his change in circumstances. His instincts kicked in and he scampered quickly to the opposite side of the tree- a motion his kind repeats at the end of every glide just in case their flight has been followed by an owl or other nighttime predator. He was out of my sight, but I heard the soft scratching of his claws on the tree trunk as he scampered upward into the protective arms of the fir. I smiled as the sound faded into the darkness, and then I left the greenbelt to the flying squirrel and his fellow creatures of the night.

The Return of Big Smoky

2009-11-28T11:34:00.000-08:00

I was awakened this morning by the repeated, anxious-sounding vocalizations of my cat Otis. All three of my cats have a surprising repertoire of sounds, most of them not even remotely resembling the classic kitty “meow.” This morning Otis was in full song, throwing out churrs, soft yowls and things that can only be described as somewhat squeaky grunts. It was a familiar pattern, but one that I listened to with some disbelief since, in my mind, Otis had no reason to be making it. He is a persistent little guy though, and when he came to the window right next to the bed and continued his vocal alarm I finally relented and looked outside. What I saw made the words, “No way!” escape involuntarily from my mouth.

The sounds Otis was making have always been associated with his seeing another cat outside. More specifically, he makes the sounds when he sees a cat that is waiting to be fed. Otis’s own story is intimately tied to a group of lost feline souls that were abandoned when a senior citizen cat hoarder that lived in the alley behind us was taken away to live in a retirement home. The story is filled with pain and tragedy, but is interspersed with occasional happy endings. I will tell it some day, but for now you need only know that after the cat hoarder left, my wife and I awoke to a yard filled with 16 cats. We spent the next four years trying to correct the wrong that had been done to these animals. At the end of those four years, many of the cats had been captured and adopted out to loving homes, some had been killed by cars, some were trapped and euthanized due to disease and some simply disappeared. The only cat that remained was a huge tom that we call Big Smoky. He is the toughest cat I have ever met, but this has had the unfortunate consequence of simply prolonging his suffering.

Otis arrived in our yard before the cat hoarder was taken away. We thought he was simply a neighbor’s cat that was wandering through until we got a good look at how thin and sickly he was. We started to feed and attempt to tame him. He responded slowly, and we were finally able to touch him after 5 months of constantly building his trust. It was because of the food supply that we were leaving out for Otis that the 16 cats converged on our yard after the hoarder was gone. Otis had just moved inside with us when the convergence occurred, and it was then that we first began to hear him make the vocalizations I heard this morning. It was also when we learned that Otis will not stop vocalizing until we take care of the cats that he sees outside. We have risen from bed many hours earlier than planned countless times in the past four years to feed the hungry at Otis’s insistence. Before this morning, it had been more than a month since we last heard him use his “hungry cat alarm call.”

As I mentioned, Big Smoky is the last of the cats that came from the hoarders house. He is not the only cat from the group that was too wary to enter a trap, but he is the only one of the trap-shy cats that has not died from illness or injury or simply disappeared. He has shown up in our yard with countless injuries- large infected wounds, most likely caused by fights with another tom. He has also frequently become ill with horrible respiratory infections, apparent tooth infections and severe gastrointestinal issues. A truly feral cat, his whole life is spent in confusion and suffering interspersed with the occasional free meal. About five weeks ago he had come to eat. He was extremely thin and sickly. Diarrhea ran freely from his anus and was caked on his legs and tail. His eyes were slightly glazed and he appeared to be a shell of his usual self. He ate his fill and then disappeared. As the weeks passed with no sign of him, we hoped for his sake that he would finally be at peace.

Last night I put into words what my wife and I had been thinking for at least two weeks. “Well,” I said, “I think we have seen the last of Big Smoky.” It was said with some sadness, but mostly with relief. I really do believe that Smoky’s life is nothing short of nightmarish. He is a domestic animal trapped in the shadows by his own fear. He is terrified of humans, but he can’t survive without their help. It breaks my heart to see his constant pain, and I only wish that I could humanely end his suffering.

So when I looked out the window this morning and exclaimed, “No way!” it was with a mix of incredulity and sadness. I am in awe of Big Smoky’s continued survival, but I am in anguish over his continued suffering. The only comfort I can offer him for now is a full stomach. The fact that he survived during his five-week absence tells me that our house is not the only one Smoky is visiting for a free meal. I hope that when the day comes that he is finally too injured or too ill to run away he will be in a place that either I or another caring individual can find him. It is the fault of humans that Smoky’s life has been so full of pain and suffering. At the very least, we owe it to him to ensure that he doesn’t suffer even one minute longer than he has to.

Cache Prize

2009-11-13T22:00:00.000-08:00

As I sat in my car at a red light this morning I watched two crows searching for food on the sidewalk. It had been raining fairly hard for some time, and the pavement had been rinsed clean of most of the kind of tidbits that crows can find on drier days. One of the crows turned and walked through a short hedgerow and resumed his search in the parking lot of a nearby Burger King. The second crow followed slowly behind, but stopped next to one of the hedges. He seemed slightly nervous, and he glanced in my direction more than once as if he was well aware that my eyes were on him. He also looked at his companion who was now halfway across the parking lot poking his beak half-heartedly at something in a puddle.

After standing next to the bush for about 15 seconds, the wary crow poked his bill in among the branches and pulled out a beakful of dried leaves. He poked his bill in again, and again extracted a small pile of leaves. He went in a third time, and this time when he drew back he had a large wad of what looked like compacted hamburger bun in his beak. The light turned green at this point, so I was not able to see whether or not the crow slunk off and ditched his companion to enjoy his secret hoard in peace. As I drove away though, I wondered what other treasures this crow had hidden in the area. I also wondered if his companion was at that very moment pulling out his own cached treat from a hiding spot on the other side of the parking lot. Crows have so many secrets…

Hope Floats

2009-11-08T17:35:00.000-08:00

I have an image burned indelibly into my memory. I see eleven small, black-and-white bodies moving in unison out to sea. They are moving away from a line of smiling humans holding empty boxes. On their left, another group of smiling humans, some of them holding cameras, watches them go. There is much joy in the watching, but also much sadness, for there is a lingering memory of many other feathered beings whose lives ended before they were able to make this journey home. Today, it is much easier not to dwell in that place of sadness.

The eleven swimming birds disappearing into the distance represented more than simply a handful of Common Murres returned to the wild. They were a testament to the willingness of a large group of people to sacrifice their time, money, sleep and comfort to help other living creatures that were in distress. They were living illustrations of the ability of humans to extend their compassion beyond themselves, beyond their acquaintances and even beyond their own species. At a time when compassion seems increasingly hard to come by, the selfless actions performed by so many people in assisting these birds provide proof that compassion is still alive and well in our world.

Water, Water Everywhere

2009-11-02T21:46:00.000-08:00

While walking along the Edmonds waterfront today I noticed a Western Gull resting on top of a light pole along one of the marina docks. Most of the gulls in the marina are used to being in close proximity to humans. They usually don't get nervous unless a person stops and focuses their attention on them. Since I was on a walkway up above the docks, the light pole put the gull nearly at my eye level. I did my best not to look directly at him as I walked by because I didn't want to disturb him from his rest. Just as I passed him though, in my peripheral vision I saw him shift position. I continued on and looked back only when I felt I had put enough distance between myself and the bird that he would not be made uncomfortable.

When I looked back, the gull was standing on one leg on top of the light. This is not an unusual posture for gulls, but as he tried to put his other foot down, it clearly caused him pain. He tipped forward off of the light and extended his wings to arrest his fall. He made a soft, one-point landing on a nearby dock and then began to hobble in my direction, alternating between good foot and bad. I knew he wasn't interested in me as I was above him and he never once looked in my direction, but he was moving with a purpose and he had piqued my curiosity. As I continued to watch, the gull walked up to one of the water spigots on the dock that are there for the boaters to use. I noticed that the spigot was dripping. Clearly, the gull had noticed this long before I did.

I couldn't help but smile as the gull stuck his beak under the faucet and began to catch the fresh water droplets that were leaking out at about one second intervals. Occasionally he glanced up at me with a droplet hanging from his bill, and then he returned to drinking. After snapping a few photographs to commemorate the moment, I walked on, leaving the still drinking gull to finish quenching his thirst. I hoped that his foot would soon heal, and that he would enjoy sipping from leaky faucets for many years to come.

Educated Guess

2009-10-30T23:47:00.000-07:00

Why is it that any time a bear is sighted in a populated area, the sighting always seems to occur near a school? There were two separate stories in the news today that followed this pattern. One was about three bears that have been wandering around Bremerton, WA, and the other was about a bear sighting in Bellevue. Both mentioned that the bears had been seen near schools. Judging from the intelligence of some of the bears I have met, I'm guessing that a few of them have gone so far as to attend classes at these schools. I think that's what the whole "bear sighted near school" phenomenon is about. The bears really just want to expand their minds, but as soon as someone sees them the whole school goes on lock-down. The bears are then chased by Karelian bear dogs, darted and moved way back out into the mountains where there's not much fancy book-learnin' to be had. Poor creatures. These days it's nearly impossible for them to become smarter than the average bear :o).

Letting Nature Take It's Course

2009-10-26T22:00:00.000-07:00

I was interviewed by a newspaper reporter today about an influx of distressed loons, murres and grebes at the wildlife center where I work. The birds were affected by a toxic algae bloom along the Pacific coast that soiled their feathers and compromised their waterproofing. After their feathers were no longer able to repel water, the birds struggled ashore to avoid death by drowning and hypothermia. Once beached, a slow death by starvation was an inevitability for most of the birds. And this was the fate of hundreds, if not thousands of them all along the Washington and Oregon coast. But this was not to be the fate for all of them. Caring humans intervened and transported over 500 birds to a rehabilitation center in Oregon. My own center offered assistance and took in over 120 patients of our own.

Events like this have happened in the past, and reporters tend to ask the same questions each time a similar event occurs. Today was no exception. I fully expected it when the reporter asked me, "If this was an algae bloom that caused the birds' feather problems, it sounds like it was a natural event. What would you say to people who say that you should let nature take its course?" Now, I was representing an organization during this interview, so I had to give a professional answer rather than a personal answer. So my answer included things like pointing out that human activity affects nearly every aspect of the natural world, and we can't say that we don't play some role in the frequency or severity of these toxic algae blooms. I also mentioned that all of the birds for whom we are caring have seen drastic drops in their populations over the last decade so anything we can do to help them is a good thing. Lastly I mentioned that the work we are doing is also largely a humane effort. People finding these animals in distress need a place to turn to for help, and we provide a service not only to the animal, but to the community as well. All sensible, straightforward reasons, but I did not share all that I felt inside.

After working for four days with very little sleep to help care for these birds, and watching everyone around me doing the same, it was hard not to feel somewhat disappointed by the oversimplification of the situation as indicated by the reporter's question. To be honest, it is not so much that I have a problem with the question being asked. I am a naturalist, and asking questions about nature is a constant state of being for me. What I do have a problem with is the question being asked repeatedly, and in only one context-- when people are trying to save wild animals in distress. Is the question ever asked when state wildlife managers say a species like deer must be hunted to make sure they don't overpopulate and eventually starve from a shortage of food? Is the question asked when human rescue and relief efforts are mounted after a flood or earthquake? So why ask the question when people are trying to help otherwise healthy wild birds who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?

My real answer to the reporter's question has nothing to do with whether or not humans contributed to the plight of these birds. I think anyone who can see beyond the tip of their own nose can probably conclude for themselves whether or not that is the case. What I really wanted to say is that we are letting nature take its course. Every single human that has taken part in this rescue effort is a product of nature. Through evolution we have arrived at our present state of being and that includes a complex set of emotions, not the least of which is compassion. While some members of our species only feel compassion for other humans, our compassion extends to the other beings with whom we share the planet. The drive to alleviate suffering is an inseparable part of who we are. To ignore it, or to try to suppress it feels like the most unnatural thing of all. Why, you ask, do we not let nature take its course? I say that is exactly what we are doing.

2009-10-19T23:03:00.000-07:00

I returned home after running some errands this afternoon to find a flurry of avian activity on a small woodlot across the street from my house. Band-tailed Pigeons, American Robins and European Starlings were busy collecting ripe berries in a pair of side-by-side Madrona trees. A Steller's Jay and a Bewick's Wren could both be heard calling and chattering from a Douglas Fir nearby.

After grabbing my camera from inside the house, I watched the mixed flock of foragers go about their business. I was especially fascinated by the Band-tailed Pigeons. They were quite adept at maneuvering their relatively large bodies along the thin branches. They were able to tip forward, backward and even turn upside down in a manner that seemed more chickadee-like than pigeon-like.

Once each of the dozen or so pigeons had eaten their fill, they flew into the upper branches of the fir from which the jay and wren had been calling. Now, with both trees free of the larger-bodied birds, the robins and starlings continued to forage in the Madronas for several more minutes. After satisfying their appetites, they too moved on.

See more photos of the Band-tailed Pigeons on goatislandimages.com.

Face to Face With A Giant

2009-10-19T00:10:00.000-07:00

My wife Julie and I headed out to a favorite mushroom hunting spot today in the hopes of reaping the bounty of the past week's rains. As we wandered the thickly forested mountainside looking for chanterelles and other edibles, it quickly became clear that we were not the first two people to have this idea. After searching for some time we had found only the cut stalks of two large cauliflower mushrooms and a handful of chanterelles. As we continued to search, we heard the loud popping of twigs breaking somewhere nearby. We stopped, standing silently with our heads turned in the direction of the sound. Three humans came into view about 50 yards upslope. Satisfied that the breaking twigs needed no further investigation, Julie and I slipped quietly away in the opposite direction.

We continued traversing the wooded slope and eventually crossed a small stream. Not far from the stream I noticed a familiar musky smell as I passed a large cedar stump. Thinking I might have discovered an uncut cauliflower mushroom I followed the scent. Approaching the stump I did not find a cauliflower mushroom, but I did find something much more exciting. A long, shiny body mottled with shades of dark brown and an almost golden color sat in the shadows at the foot of the cedar remnant. I felt the same kind of excitement that I felt in my childhood when making this kind of discovery. I blurted out something like, "Julie! Come quick! It's a salamander!" Moving toward me Julie inquired, "What kind?", to which I replied, "It's a Giant! Pacific Giant I think!"

Julie made her way to my position and pointed out some overripe Chicken of the Woods mushrooms that were likely the source of the smell I had detected. We then both looked at the salamander that was seemingly unaware of, or at least outwardly nonreactive to our presence. Because we were on a slope, and the ground rose up around the base of the stump, we did not have to bend over very far to be right at eye level with the large amphibian. We spent several minutes just looking at him in awe, amazed by his colors, his markings and his striking eyes. I took a few photos to remember him by, and then we left the salamander as we had found him. We walked out of the woods in high spirits despite the mostly empty mushroom bag that we carried with us.

More photos of the Pacific Giant Salamander can be found on goatislandimages.com.

Paved Paradise

2009-10-17T21:45:00.000-07:00

On my way home from work today I dropped a wayward traveler off at the beach along Puget Sound. Sometime earlier in the day this wandering soul had been flying high. He was headed for salt water to spend the winter fishing among the kelp and eel grass with large flocks of his kin. He came up about a mile and a half short, but not because he was out of energy or otherwise physically incapable of continuing the flight. No, he fell victim to a trick of the eyes, and his interpretation of what he saw led him to land prematurely. That premature landing could have meant the end of the line for the unfortunate bird.

From the air, it can be challenging to tell the difference between wet pavement and the surface of a body of water. It must be especially difficult for a bird whose species has not needed to make such a distinction for most of its history on the planet. They undoubtedly recognize wet rock faces as they fly over mountains, but a huge, flat swath of glistening wet blacktop is a different matter altogether. The only natural, large flat swaths of glistening wetness that they see are bodies of water, and they can't tell that the pavement is not what it appears to be until they have already crash landed.

If a mallard or a goose lands on wet pavement, it's not the end of the world. They simply launch themselves back into the air and continue on their way. For birds like the Western Grebe (today's wayward traveler) landing on pavement is a disaster. They are highly adapted to life on and in the water. Their legs are situated far back on their bodies making it extremely awkward for them to stand up. They can take flight from water by first paddling and then running awkwardly on the surface to gain enough speed for liftoff. They are incapable of getting airborne from dry land, so once they hit the pavement they are grounded.

Fortunately for today's grebe, a kind woman found him sitting on her lawn when she exited her home. He had likely crashed on the nearby road and had been struggling about, trying his best to figure a way out of the predicament. His feet had nicks and abrasions from the effort, but he was otherwise unhurt. After he spent a couple hours in a pool to make sure he was still waterproof, and after he finished an all-he-could-eat fish dinner, I was happy to help the grebe complete his journey to his wintering grounds. My co-worker Jim did the honors and placed the bird gently in the water. The grebe paddled furiously away from shore before relaxing and giving himself a few good shakes to realign his feathers. He then swam slowly seaward, periodically diving and resurfacing as he went. It seemed that he had left the troubles of the day behind him on the beach. What he saw and what he felt were once again in alignment.

Small Disputes

2009-10-15T17:08:00.000-07:00

A holly tree at my place of work has recently become the stage for an ongoing dispute among at least four Anna's Hummingbirds. The argument was first brought to my attention last Saturday when I investigated the loud vocalizations of two male hummingbirds that were facing off in the branches of the holly. One bird sat low in the tree, looking up and waving his bill from side to side while chattering away in his distinct hummingbird voice. The other was about six feet higher, looking down and doing his own vocalizing and bill waving. While the first two birds were arguing, a third male flew in and buzzed the perch of the bird that was higher in the branches. The perching bird responded immediately and took off on the the tail of the interloper, chattering like mad all the way. The bird that was lower in the branches quickly fell silent and slightly retracted his neck as if he now wished to keep a low profile.

On Tuesday I returned to the holly tree to discover a lone male hummingbird sitting high in the branches. He periodically took short flights to feed on blossoms the tree had produced before returning to hold vigil against intruders from his chosen lookout. No other birds were seen or heard. It appeared that either the hummingbird dispute had ended in victory for the bird that was present, or his two rivals were elsewhere at the moment tending to other matters.

Returning to the tree today I discovered a sub-adult female Anna's Hummingbird sitting in nearly the same position as the male that I encountered on Tuesday. As I watched her, a male flew in and hovered nearby, but she barraged him with seemingly angry chatter that sent him retreating to a high alder branch above. The birds had two or three more verbal exchanges during the following ten minutes, but neither moved from its perch. I left them to continue the discussion in my absence, but I couldn't help but wonder what new dynamic will have developed within this group of tiny competitors the next time I visit this disputed tree.

The Feeling of Freedom

2009-10-14T21:52:00.000-07:00

Tonight I released ten sub-adult raccoons that had been raised at the wildlife rehabilitation center where I am employed. When they are making their transition from captivity to freedom, young raccoons always make me think of kids set free in a candy store. But it's not sweets that the racoons are getting worked up about (although I'm sure they wouldn't turn them down if offered). For a young raccoon, the "candy" in a world without walls is the infinite number of textures waiting to be investigated at length with their sensitive forepaws.

Even before the raccoons leave their transport carrier their paws stretch out through the open door to grab every twig, leaf, rock and fern frond within reach. Each object the paws encounter is thoroughly rolled, rubbed, crumpled and pressed between those two dark, five-fingered information gathering devices. When they exit the carrier it often appears as if their senses are all working independently of one another. The paws continue to grab nearby objects and feel them while the eyes, ears and nose gather information from a greater distance than the paws can manage. Occasionally what the paws are feeling warrants further inspection by one of the other senses, and the nose and/or eyes are momentarily brought into play before the object is either discarded or popped into the raccoon's mouth.

Eventually the urge to explore takes hold on the raccoons and they set off in whichever direction they have decided is most inviting. Usually this means heading towards the water's edge where they will find even more tactile sensations to experience, but they take their time getting there. The slow progress of the raccoons can easily be followed even after the animals themselves have disappeared into thick cover. They cannot resist touching everything they pass, and their movement in a given direction can be tracked by the spasmodic movements of the tops of plants, the textured stems of which are being enthusiastically experienced by the unseen raccoons below.

Wildness Surrounds Us

2009-10-14T09:50:00.000-07:00

Wildness truly is a part of our everyday lives. We may not always see it, or recognize it when we do, but the wild is ubiquitous and ever-present. Whether you are watching a mother bear and cub eating huckleberries in a high alpine meadow, or a pair of crows eating a smashed burrito on a city street, you are getting a small glimpse of the wild. When I speak of the everyday wild I am referring to this wildness that is always right under our nose, but that we often fail to see. If you can begin to acknowledge the everyday wild, your eyes will be opened to a much more interesting and complex world; one in which you are never truly alone.