The River Landing

Eulogy for an Oak - Part 1 of 2

Edwin Way Teale once wrote about revisiting a favorite wild place after a long absence:

"On a return to old familiar scenes, it is remarkable how remembered trees seem to step forward to meet you in a landscape...they are landmarks of special importance. We look over the old trees as we do our dear friends and acquaintances to note the changes that the years have brought."

Similar thoughts were passing through my mind as I neared a long-time favorite forest preserve near Chicago following several years of absence. For quite a few years beginning in the mid-1980s and before moving to southern Illinois, I had been a regular, almost weekly, visitor to the natural areas near Spear Woods. During this time, I had established a fairly regular route through the woods and fields, mostly following animal trails. Many of my hikes began just after sunrise when few other humans were about. A large white oak tree marked the furthest point on most hikes; after sitting for a while against the oak, I would usually begin to head back to the trail head on 95^th street. As I left my vehicle in the preserve parking area on this return October visit, I could clearly envision the old oak. Little did I know that a big change had occurred during my extended absence.

An Outdoor Education

Like most previous hikes, I followed a frequently used deer trail on the way to my favorite white oak tree, passing near Pollywog Slough. Because of the frequency of my former visits to the Spear Woods area, I had become extremely familiar with the lay of the land, the different bird species to be found at all seasons, and the timing of their migrations. After a while, I even became familiar with individual plants along the trails. At the northernmost point of Pollywog Slough is a stand of prairie cordgrass, which, probably because of its rarity in the area and its association with wild, uncultivated land, has always seemed to provide me with a vague sense of security for the future of the natural world; how long it has been there, no one can ever know.

Walking past the slough, I remembered that prior to the drought of 1988, the slough was mostly open water. Since the drought, it has become overgrown with plants, mostly cattails. The drought seems to have pushed ahead the natural plant succession tending toward a forest. On a previous trip, when there was still much open water at the slough, I had watched the complicated flights of numerous barn and rough-winged swallows picking insects from the air and off the water’s surface. I recalled how the late afternoon sunlight reflected from the barn swallows’ feathers, making the tops of their bodies a deep blue, richer in quality then the early evening sky of a clear Canadian high.

Hogwash Slough was my next stopping place on the trail toward the old oak tree, and a rotting log covered with mosses provided a good vantage point to watch for birds over the water. One spring there was a yellow-crowned night heron perching on the top of a dead tree, perhaps on its way to the heronries of the Lake Calumet wetlands. And once during the fall hawk migration, I watched an osprey flying from the north; the bird circled over the slough a few times, then dove into the water, emerging a few seconds later with a small fish in its talons. The osprey then perched on the top of a dead tree and fed on the fish for several minutes before continuing southward. I remembered summer months with red-headed woodpeckers and cedar waxwings flying back and forth over the slough catching insects from the air, while from time to time a belted kingfisher hovered over the water, its body seemingly anchored to a point in the air. Though I had been using this same log for years, a large clump of the non-native multiflora rose now grew in front of the log, obscuring my view of the slough. On future hikes I would have to find a new log.

North of Hogwash Slough, I followed the deer trail to an old field containing a great deal of scrubby vegetation in addition to several good-quality prairie plants: wild false indigo, wild quinine, prairie dock, and stands of big bluestem grass. It was at the meadow years ago that I first saw the old oak tree after topping a slight rise in the land. In my mind’s eye, I could see its wide, open crown and large lower branches, indicating that as long as this tree was alive, the surrounding area was open with few other trees. A tree that grew to maturity in a closed-canopy forest would have had its lower branches fall away through a process of "self-pruning."

The "old oak tree" mid-1980s

Early on I had begun to use the tree as a good place to sit, listen to the wind and birds, read, and sleep. I returned often, once to find a large bird fly from the ground on my approach in order to land on the tree’s lowest branch. Slowly the bird turned its head, and I found myself face to face with a great horned owl; its eyes seemed to indicate boredom at my presence rather than alarm. I half expected the owl to rush at me with extended talons, against which I would have been defenseless; instead, it quickly disappeared into the forest without a sound.

Most days at the tree had been somewhat less eventful. Summer days in the shade were filled with soothingly warm breezes accompanied by the continuous songs of common yellowthroats and goldfinches, occasionally a blue-winged warbler. During the winter I sometimes sighted a northern shrike or American kestrel. And in all seasons the skies usually contained soaring red-tailed hawks, some of which engaged in courtship displays beginning in late winter.

Sometimes there were mats of grass near the tree flattened from white-tailed deer resting in the night. Signs of deer are very common, from frequently encountered piles of their droppings to scattered bones. The deer, in fact, are highly overpopulated in the Cook County forest preserves. With few natural predators to check their numbers, a population boom and bust cycle may be inevitable.

As I walked toward the old oak tree on this most recent visit, I remembered these and many more experiences, and the promise of a new adventure caused me to walk a bit faster than usual. Would I see an owl on this day? A northern shrike? Or maybe a coyote, known to have increasing populations in Illinois? The answers were just over the next rise, beyond a line of oaks.

[Note: This story originally appeared in slightly different form in the Summer 1996 issue of Illinois Audubon magazine, Number 257.]

Eulogy for an Oak - Part 2 of 2

Winds of Change

Sandhill cranes in a vee-formation called from above as I came near to the field with the old oak tree. Then another larger flock came into view stealing my attention for several minutes. Despite the anticipation, I delayed my walk to the tree in order to watch the cranes, reasoning that the tree would still be there, while the cranes would soon be gone. But when I topped the rise in land, I was greeted with a scene not matching my memory: the old tree had fallen. Unsuspected by me, its main trunk had been mostly hollow. Yet it had seemed so healthy and strong with its thick leaf cover, not even hinting that it was slowly dying and near the terminus of a long and productive life; it had seemed to be the foundation of stability and endurance.

The fallen "old white oak"

The inside of the trunk showed signs of fire, how old I did not know. Although the thick bark of white oaks makes them somewhat resistant to small fires, perhaps there had been one or more fires of a higher intensity, enough to damage the sensitive living part of the tree just below the bark. This would have provided an entry point for insects and fungi, eventually rotting away the wood inside. After this happens to a tree, it is just a matter of time before a strong wind blows part or all of it down. Its branches were completely lacking of leaves and small twigs, indicating it had been dead for more than the previous growing season. If it had stood during the most recent summer, small twigs, if not leaves would have still been present.

I felt fortunate to have shared with this tree a small portion of its long life. Another large white oak that stands at the nearby Little Red Schoolhouse Nature Center was estimated to be over 300 years old. If my tree were of a similar age, it may have been standing as a small seedling when Marquette and Jolliet passed in their canoes just a few miles north on the Des Plaines River in 1673, bound for the Chicago Portage and the Great Lakes – well before the first land would be cleared by European-American settlers for agriculture in Illinois. By chance, the tree managed to persist through the present automobile age and the resulting spread of nearby urban areas that continue to expand unchecked, remaking a landscape that has not changed so significantly since being shaped by glaciers thousands of years ago. Interstate 55, six lanes of continuous, roaring traffic, and Mannheim Road, a main traffic artery through the forest preserves to the sprawl of the southwestern suburbs, lie only a short distance away. Yet this tree was not cut to make room for more development. Undoubtedly, preservation of the area as a forest preserve for the last several decades has had much to do with this.

But the old oak left many progeny. Most of the smaller white oaks nearby are probably its descendants. So in a way, it lives on. As I return to this area over the years, the grand old oak will slowly decay to the earth, to become part of the soil; its stored nutrients will be taken up by other plants which will themselves eventually return to the soil. Perhaps one day decades from now I will return and there will be little sign of the tree at all, and I will have to find new landmarks to help guide my trail. But hopefully I may with fondness recall the halcyon days of my younger years, and remember the great horned owl, the sandhill cranes, and the osprey. Maybe I will see their descendants also.

Reference

Teale, Edwin Way. 1978. A walk through the year. Dodd, Mead, and Company, New York. 408 pp.

[Note: This story originally appeared in slightly different form in the Summer 1996 issue of Illinois Audubon magazine, Number 257.]

From a Great Lakes Journal: Of Sand, Glaciers, and Birds - Part 1 of 3

"...the dunes have long afforded a refuge to human derelicts who have fled from the busy world of strife and turmoil to the peace and quiet of the sand hills." – Milo M. Quaife, from Lake Michigan, The American Lakes Series, 1944

In central Illinois, I sat on the ground at my favorite hawk watching perch, on a large sand dune overlooking the Illinois River valley. The sand, the geologists tell us, was brought down the river valley in a massive torrent of glacial melt waters, some 15,000 years ago and then blown into dunes by the prevailing winds. Many gulls soared over the river that day, but the skies were lacking in raptors. My thoughts drifted northward, toward the great sand dunes along Lake Michigan’s shores, and so I began to make plans. Instead of waiting for the fall migration, I would wander around Lake Michigan, searching for birds, but in a loose, meandering sort of way.

* * *

While en route to Michigan, about ten miles to the east of the Mason County sand areas, I passed over a landscape that abruptly changes from a flat plain to gently rolling hills. This band of hills, thoroughly dominated by row-crop agriculture, forms a crescent across much of Illinois. It is the terminal moraine of the Wisconsin glacier, where the ice sheet, about 20,000 years ago, melted as fast as it slowly moved across the land; the melting ice left behind a variety of materials, from dust to boulders. There were few birds over the farmlands, but I knew that in late September, they were surely on the move. Yet for the time being, I closely focused on arriving in southwestern Michigan before dark. Soaring turkey vultures and American kestrels perching on telephone wires were among the few species keeping the drive interesting.

In a flash I crossed the Kankakee River, still in the Illinois River’s watershed, in northern Indiana. For a time, I forgot about birds, caring only for the highway, nearly desperate to get away. But before too long, I became aware that the rivers I crossed flowed into Lake Michigan. The Illinois River’s watershed, with its Gulf-bound streams, was behind me. So like a rocket ship finally entering a stable orbit, I powered down, and relaxed. A few ring-billed gulls lazily flew in the northwest. From their height, I supposed that they had a view of Lake Michigan, now only a few miles away.

Growing up in the Chicago area, Lake Michigan – what most simply call "the lake" – seemed to be at the center of my orientation in the world. The sun set in the western sky; the lake was in the east. Near the lake, it was cooler in the summer, warmer in the winter, and more snow accumulated – the famed "lake effect" snow. In lower Michigan, though, the lake is in the west, and this turns my world upside down; it is my personal Bermuda Triangle. I tend to head south when I would really like to go north; west when I mean to travel east. Even as I was acutely aware of this curious effect, the current trip provided no exception. To find Warren Woods Natural Area on a map, I pulled off the road, and then closely checked the road signs and the sun before proceeding cautiously.

Warren Woods is a true classic, old-growth forest. At about 300 acres, it is small even by Illinois standards, but my imagination easily expanded it outward to the millions of forested acres that once covered a great part of eastern North America. The immense sugar maples, red oaks, and American beech, with the Galien River flowing beneath, inspired the final power down from my previous intense focus on covering the miles. With the sun nearing the horizon, I slowly walked toward my favorite tulip tree, about four feet in diameter, and probably the tallest tree for miles around. Red-headed woodpeckers called from several directions, already setting up winter stores of acorns and beech nuts.

I made only one wrong turn after leaving Warren Woods, and then headed back to the town of Sawyer. Beyond the motel room window, a crow perched on a utility pole, calling to a companion; a continuous stream of vehicles that would continue unbroken all night passed on the interstate highway; the sun had set over the tree line – and, I imagined, beneath Lake Michigan’s continuous horizon of water.

At Warren Dunes State Park, I followed the back country trails to the lake, like a derelict keeping to the shadows, completely avoiding the main parking area with its crowds of beach enthusiasts. The trail led through an area of forested, stabilized sand dunes. Most of the forest birds were in mixed-species flocks, following the lead of the resident black-capped chickadees. Near the top of one forested dune, I sensed the wind blowing somewhat more vigorously, an indication the lake was not far beyond.

As Lake Michigan came into view, the wide panorama of endless blue sky and water erased all thoughts of the modern world and its many intractable problems. I followed a deer trail to a lone cottonwood surrounded by a prairie of flowers and dune grasses, then sat under the tree for a couple of hours, attempting to gather in all the myriad sounds, smells, and colors. The continuously blowing wind gave rise to enormous swells far out on the lake, which eventually arrived at the beach, pounding its sandy shores, one powerfully breaking wave after the other. The pure white of herring and ring-billed gulls clearly contrasted against the white caps and deep blue waters as far as I could see. I scanned the skies for raptors riding updraft winds. Yet despite my conclusion that it was the perfect day for a raptor migration, only turkey vultures were numerous. A few red-tailed hawks soared like leisurely foraging residents rather then seriously moving migrants.

Before hiking to the water’s edge, about 200 feet below my vantage point, I scanned the distant meeting of sky and water with my binoculars, and was stopped cold as I viewed the tall buildings of downtown Chicago, about 60 miles away, shimmering ghost-like in the vaporous air just above the roiling water. Since first viewing Lake Michigan earlier in the day, I had felt to be in the most peacefully secure location on the planet, where only the natural world mattered; now the sight of the tall skyscrapers allowed the rest of the world to intrude, and I wondered whether I would ever again be able to look at skyscrapers on a sunny day without thinking of news footage from that terrible September day in 2001.

Warren Dunes, Lake Michigan

The rest of my walk was complicated by a mix of emotions. Even the sanderlings, comically running up and down the beach at the edge of the dissipating breakers, failed to restore my former sense of equanimity. I needed true wilderness, and that was much further north.

[Note: This story originally appeared in slightly different form in the Winter 2002-2003 issue of Illinois Audubon magazine, Number 283.]

From a Great Lakes Journal: Of Sand, Glaciers, and Birds - Part 2 of 3

For three days I camped at the 3,450-acre Nordhouse Dunes Wilderness Area located about 170 miles from the southern tip of the lake. Here I walked for hours along the sandy beach, encountering no one. Scanning over the water revealed not tall buildings, only more water and gulls. In my mind, our civilization became dwarfed by the powerful forces of the mile-high glacier that carved the Great Lakes out of the earth, the same glacier that dumped its load of debris as it melted in central Illinois, the same ice sheet that flowed in the other direction, a half a world away to Siberia. Compared to natural forces, our civilization, with all of its accomplishments and conflicting ideas, can certainly seem insignificant.

While in this thoughtful mood, a huge mute swan flew past. The mute swan is a European native, introduced to Michigan in 1919. And just after the mute swan, I noticed a few zebra mussel shells (a non-native mollusk accidentally introduced into the Great Lakes in the late 1980s) mixed in with the sand along the beach. I tried not to think about the fact that due to human influences the fish community of Lake Michigan has become a product of human re-invention and active manipulation. I tried not to think about the fish consumption advisories in effect for decades due to toxic contamination. This was a "wilderness," after all.

In the woods at Nordhouse Dunes, birds were scarce; but I noticed white-throated sparrows and dark-eyed juncos, which, given my location on the edge of their breeding ranges, could have been residents as well as migrants. To find more birds, I spent a couple of hours sitting beside the 30-acre Nordhouse Lake. The calm, clear, shallow water with its aquatic vegetation attracted a small group of waterfowl that contained mallards, black ducks, American widgeons, and Canada geese. In the space of a few seconds, a bald eagle, sharp-shinned hawk, and turkey vulture passed over. In vain, I waited for an osprey, only moving on after I thought of the great deal of ground yet to cover before dark. During the night, barred owls called and groups of coyotes howled and yipped. For a long time, I had forgotten about zebra mussels and mute swans.

Nordhouse Dunes Wilderness at Lake Michigan

The next day as I drove northward, white cedars, paper birch, eastern hemlock, and white pines were becoming noticeably more abundant. At Hartwick Pines State Park, I briefly stopped for a short hike to view a small tract of woods missed by the loggers. Other than the glaciers, nothing has scoured the land in Michigan more thoroughly than logging. Though the paved walkway gave the old-growth woods a museum-exhibit-like quality, it was at this location, standing under a 100-foot canopy of hemlock, red and white pine, and sugar maple, that I heard the first raven of the trip. In the Midwest, ravens are associated with the north woods and wilderness. The mixed-species foraging flocks in these woods contained red-breasted as well as white-breasted nuthatches. On a continental scale, I had clearly crossed an invisible line into a different biological zone.

Continuing northward in rainy weather, I soon crossed over the Straits of Mackinaw to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (the "U.P."). Folks say that when one gives up trying that is when things begin to happen. So after giving up on finding interesting birds for a day, I guess I should not have been surprised to see a sandhill crane calmly walking across the interstate highway just north of St. Ignace. Fortunately, the traffic was sparse. So, leaving the crane to its fate, I steamed ahead for the famed Whitefish Point Bird Observatory, a bit concerned, though, about running into a tourist trap after seeing numerous "Visit the Shipwreck Museum" billboards along the roadsides.

The Mackinaw Bridge

Though the large parking lot at Whitefish Point was filled with vehicles and with people milling about the Shipwreck Museum, the bird observatory’s visitor’s center was nearly empty. But my visit there was short; because as the weather cleared, I was highly anxious to be off on a remote trail somewhere. So while the museum looked interesting, and I hoped to visit it on another trip someday, I took only a quick glace at Lake Superior, and then wasted no time tearing out of the parking lot.

But the weather was soon again on the verge of rain. Though tempted to simply continue westward, no one who is interested in birds could visit the U.P. without a stop at Seney National Wildlife Refuge. Most of the refuge, including a 25,150-acre designated wilderness area, is either nearly inaccessible swamp and wetland or closed to visitors. Before the rain began, I managed to hike over the short loop trail near the visitor’s center and then drive around the 7-mile auto tour that follows part of the levee system. Here I was able to obtain nice views of trumpeter swans, which nest at the refuge, plus a variety of other water birds including pied-billed grebes, hooded mergansers, ring-necked ducks, and wood ducks. I saw no raptors, but with imminent bad weather, most were probably quietly roosting in trees, not searching for nonexistent thermals.

Continuous rain began soon after I left Seney Refuge, precluding all outdoor activities except driving. With occasional views of a mist-enshrouded Lake Superior, I followed Michigan Route 28 westward, arriving soon after sunset at the Silver Sands Motel, just outside Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park and across the road from Lake Superior.

Porcupine Mountains at Lake Superior

In the morning, gray skies only inspired disappointment. It was the sort of day for inside reading. But I was determined to go on an extended hike, no matter what the weather might bring. In front of the motel, water pipits foraged along the roadside, and a bald eagle perched in a nearby tree. These were good signs, and at least it was not raining.

I followed Lost Creek Trail, one of the less popular routes into the park (most people enter at the famed Lake of the Clouds). The trail passes through an area of old-growth forest, totally missed by the loggers and miners. In fact, a large proportion of the 60,000-acre park also was similarly missed. For the eastern states, an undisturbed forests of this size is a rarity; only Sylvania Wilderness Area, forty miles to the south, is comparable. I walked slowly and deliberately, listening for bird call notes. The forest interior would have been dark under any conditions, and with the heavily overcast conditions of the day, it was, quintessentially dark, damp, and dismal. All day my wet shoes made a mushy, squashing sound on the well-worn muddy trail.

Birds tended to be grouped into loose foraging units moving throughout the forest. Within a short period, I saw golden-crowned kinglet, yellow-bellied sapsucker, white-throated and fox sparrows, brown creeper, and magnolia, yellow-rumped, and palm warblers. Then for great lengths of time there were no birds. The call of a distant pileated woodpecker once broke the silence. I diligently looked for a black-backed woodpecker, in vain as it turned out, but not without at least one very tantalizing sighting.

It threatened rain all day, but rain never truly materialized. I fully expected to see at least one black bear, which also never materialized (they are fairly common in northern Michigan). In fact, if I had been more optimistic, I may even have expected to see or hear timber wolves, which are found in every county in the U.P. in no less than 60 separate packs.

But with more rain in the forecast, I once again left the wilderness behind for the highway, gambling for better weather by heading straight for Duluth, Minnesota, barely checking into a motel before darkness. In the morning, two horned grebes floated on the calm waters of Lake Superior as the bright sun raised the air temperature and burned away any remnants of lingering fog. Two sharp-shinned hawks flew directly over the motel. So I dawdled no longer and quickly followed the Skyline Parkway to the famous Hawk Ridge Preserve on a high cliff overlooking Lake Superior. The preserve allows easy access to several ideal lookout points, and these are typically crowded with hawkwatchers. But always the derelict, it seems, I found a less ideal location down the road away from the others. And with the skies filled with raptors, there was no need for an ideal lookout. Raptors were everywhere: broad-winged, red-tailed, sharp-shinned, Cooper’s, harrier, bald eagles, and turkey vultures. Every few minutes, a low-flying sharp-shinned hawk passed overhead; and as I focused my binoculars on one hawk, I would see twenty more in the distance. Kettles of raptors formed one after the other. Occasionally, ravens joined with soaring raptors. There was also a large movement of blue jays, which passed along the ridge in groups just above the tree canopy. A tightly-knit flock of cedar waxwings once passed directly behind my lookout point, warily moving from tree to tree. Yet by early afternoon, anxious to camp that night at Sylvania Wilderness Area, I was headed back around the western tip of Lake Superior, downbound for the U.P.

View from Hawk Ridge, Duluth, MN

[Note: This story originally appeared in slightly different form in the Winter 2002-2003 issue of Illinois Audubon magazine, Number 283.]

From a Great Lakes Journal - Of Sand, Glaciers, and Birds - Part 3 of 3

At Sylvania Wilderness, I was home again, surrounded by a tract of virgin timber. Frost covered my vehicle’s windshield in the morning, but I owned the campground. And although the first day remained heavily overcast, not quite threatening rain, common loons were constant companions that I either saw or heard as I canoed the length of Clark Lake. Croaking ravens, soaring bald eagles, and gray jays solidified my wilderness state of mind.

Sylvania Wilderness Area, Michigan

Yet after only two idyllic days at Sylvania, the weather, as a matter of course, quickly deteriorated. Without enthusiasm, then, I began the final leg of my journey back to Lake Michigan and then home. But first, I stopped at Horicon Marsh National Wildlife Refuge, about 40 miles northwest of Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

The night before, the calls of Canada geese were the last sounds I heard before entering the motel for the night, and their calls were the first sounds I heard outside in the morning. At the 21,000-acre Horicon Refuge, Canada geese numbered in the thousands, streaming inward toward the refuge from all directions; and their numbers were nowhere near peaking (over 200,000 at one time are not uncommon). Sandhill cranes were the next most abundant large birds, followed by American white pelicans.

I sat with the morning sun at my back on the glacial moraine hills that surround the marsh. And I recalled that the marsh was once a lake which had its bed scoured out by a lobe of the Wisconsin glacier between 12,000 and 70,000 years ago. From this vantage point, with thousands of birds to watch, I chose to focus on the red-tailed hawks. In the steadily blowing winds, they gained sufficient lift by merely positioning themselves into the wind in such a way that lift exactly balanced their rate of fall. For indefinite periods, at least one hawk among many remained stationary hundreds of feet in the air. A slight wing adjustment caused a gentle drop or rise to a new desired altitude. These birds showed themselves to be true masters of the wind.

Although captivated by the hawks, for some reason, I felt anxious to get back to Lake Michigan, even knowing not to expect deserted beaches along Wisconsin’s public-land-poor western shore. Along the boardwalk at Kohler Dunes Natural Area, Lake Michigan once again came into view. On the busy trail I felt crowded and strangely conspicuous in my filthy, scruffy clothes with ratty backpack and spotting scope. Wary folks on the trail nodded as we passed; but I, like any wild animal, avoided eye contact, and focused on marching straight for the beach. Then just as I neared the water’s edge, an osprey dropped from the air, making a big clumsy splash as it hit the water. The bird then flew low overhead, and was soon lost within a group of gulls. If I had not been there at that exact moment. . . . Sometimes, life is indeed good, even for a derelict.

* * *

Passing over the Des Plaines River on Interstate 294 near Chicago signaled that I was once again within the Illinois River’s watershed, on the verge of being home. But before leaving Chicago behind, I took a quick glance at the downtown skyscrapers. I wanted to see them from the proper angle, with Lake Michigan on the east and the setting sun in the west. More important, I simply wanted to see them defiantly standing tall and strong.

The drive from Chicago to central Illinois and home was as uneventful as one can imagine. But in southwestern Tazewell County, just as the highway descended 100 feet as it left the terminal Wisconsin glacier behind, my thoughts again drifted northward to Lake Michigan and the U.P. The peace that I found among the birds and natural surroundings had not diminished as I recalled the previous two weeks. Peace by spending time with nature; it is an idea worth exporting.

[Note: This story originally appeared in slightly different form in the Winter 2002-2003 issue of Illinois Audubon magazine, Number 283.]

Isle Royale: A Wilderness Island in Lake Superior - Part 1 of 2

Cold winds blow across the harbor

Cold winds on the inland sea

Same winds that called our fathers

Cold winds calling me  

– Tom Kastle, from the song Cold Winds^©

Every spring, when the yellow-rumped warblers move through west-central Illinois and the songs of Swainson’s thrushes echo throughout the oak-hickory forests, I think of Isle Royale in northern Lake Superior, the place where I first learned these birds’ songs. My mind begins to fill with memories of previous adventures at the island – as well as some misadventures – that have helped shape my perspectives on life, such as they are.

Isle Royale National Park is an archipelago of some 200 islands, totaling 210 square miles, located about 15 miles from the Canadian mainland. The main island is 45 miles long and varies in width to a maximum of eight miles. It is an official federal Wilderness Area, and is internationally recognized as a Biosphere Reserve. This status gives Isle Royale a fair amount of protection from inappropriate developments. So except for the modest activities of the National Park Service, the hard-to-define quality of wildness remains intact

Isle Royale’s floral character is very different from Illinois owing to its higher latitude, and this is also reflected in its bird communities, which of all things tend to hold my interest the most. Traveling north from Illinois, some of the first obvious traces of the north woods are natural stands of paper birch and quaking aspen trees that begin to appear at about Portage, Wisconsin; the abundance of these trees increases with latitude. By the time one reaches the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, the oak-hickory forests that are common in Illinois are left far behind. Here, the forests are dominated by sugar maple, white pine, and hemlock. Boreal forest conifers such as balsam fir and spruce are also abundant. One may expect to see a goshawk, as well as ospreys and bald eagles, during the breeding season. In summer, warblers that only pass through Illinois during migration will be singing on their breeding territories. A displaced Illinoisan has the feeling of being in a different world.

Traveling to Isle Royale requires a commitment in time unlike that needed to visit most of our other national parks, for it cannot be driven to or through. One must travel to the island by boat from Grand Portage, Minnesota; Houghton, Michigan; or Copper Harbor, Michigan; one can also fly to the island by seaplane out of Houghton. I usually take the Isle Royale Queen ferry out of Copper Harbor. Because the ferry leaves for Isle Royale at 8 a.m. (eastern time), it is necessary to arrive at Copper Harbor the previous day. My preference is to arrive in the early afternoon, allowing time to view the harbor area, where some interesting birds can always be found, and perhaps the nearby forested hills. Indeed, I once saw a merlin making a determined effort to catch swallows from a small flock that was foraging for insects above the harbor. The merlin, truly a bird of the northern forests, is a very agile falcon, but the merlin was no match for the swallows, which easily countered every one of the merlin’s moves. Turkey vultures can usually be found soaring above the forested hills of the Keweenaw Peninsula in the same way their southern counterparts ride the air thermals above the cornfields of Illinois, but here the similarity ends.

Cooper Harbor on Lake Superior's Keweenau Peninsula

Voyage to the Wilderness

Beyond Copper Harbor, Lake Superior was covered in thick, early morning fog, at times obscuring the division between air and water. The passengers were not festive as might be expected when on the verge of a summer vacation trip, but appeared rather somber. No one, it seemed, knew what to expect from the big lake, the largest body of freshwater (in area) in the world. As the boat left the protected harbor, the wind and waves picked up; the captain said it might be "a bit brisk" on deck, as the temperature of the lake, which never gets above the middle forties, keeps the air cool, regardless of the weather on the mainland. Superior, truly an inland sea, creates its own weather. The boat bounced around quite a bit, though not enough to make it uncomfortable. I spent most of the four and a half hours of the trip on deck, until I became chilled in the cool temperatures and wind. Herring gulls were interesting to watch as they seemed to be following our boat across the lake, but inside the cabin there was free coffee, with its needed warmth.

Just as the fog lifted, the big island came into sight, although it was still about a half-hour away. My plans were to stay at Rock Harbor Lodge for the first two days and then rent a canoe and camp in a remote area. After embarking I sat on the back deck of my room for a while facing Lake Superior, re-gaining my strength and alertness that was lost to the winds of Superior. There were herring gulls and double-crested cormorants to watch in addition to the occasional common and red-breasted mergansers, common goldeneyes, and black ducks, some with young. It was strange to see the mergansers and goldeneyes during the summer months, as I normally associate these birds with winter (along with freezing toes and fingers).

Rock Harbor Lodge, Isle Royale National Park

Not less than 197 species of birds have been listed for Isle Royale. Of these, 120 are considered permanent and/or summer residents. Only 22 are listed as permanent and/or winter residents, an indication of the harsh winter conditions. The best way to see the most birds is to locate them by habitat type. There are eleven major bird habitats on the island, each with a characteristic bird assemblage, though most species may be found in more than one habitat. Other than Lake Superior and its shoreline, the spruce-fir-birch forest (boreal forest) is the most common habitat type on the eastern end of the island near the lodge. Without thinking about bird habitats, if one is staying at the lodge, most bird watching would then be done in the boreal forest, thus minimizing the search in other habitats. So I made a mental note to try to find as many other habitats as possible, so that I could locate species not characteristic of the boreal forest.

Although I was anxious to see as much as possible during my short stay on the island, I decided to take it easy on the first day by spending the afternoon on the Stoll Trail loop to Scoville Point, then taking in a Park Service lecture in the evening. The Stoll Trail is self-interpretive with signs along the trail every so often explaining the ecology and geology of the island. It provides an excellent introduction to the island and also passes through several types of bird habitats.

On the Stoll Trail, Isle Royale National Park

The small forest dwellers, though, are difficult to find, if not hear in the dense spruce-fir woods. A great deal of patience and determination is required to actually find the birds. As an example, all afternoon I had been listening to the incredibly complicated song of many winter wrens before actually seeing the bird. Because of the difficulties of finding a single singing bird, other species that are heard while trying to find a particular singer must essentially be ignored; I found myself having to ignore the black-throated green warbler in favor of the northern parula, only to be enticed by a loudly singing Tennessee warbler, a challenge to find under any circumstances. Trying to located a Swainson’s thrush was pure madness, but a good madness. Back at the lodge, there was a persistently calling least flycatcher cooperating very well by sitting on a tree top in full view, while several gray jays flew close by the front door of my room, where I had a fleeting glimpse of a pileated woodpecker. The yellow-rumped warblers were surprisingly easy to find; their songs will forever make me think of Isle Royale, the boreal forest, and Lake Superior.

My second day on the island I awoke early for a quick breakfast. As I opened the front door of my room, I was greeted by the sight of a moose. During the next few days I would see many more. Isle Royale, in fact, has a large moose population, sometimes over 2,000, although the number varies from year to year. There apparently is no evidence that moose inhabited the island any earlier than the winter of 1912-13, when an ice bridge formed between the island and the Canadian mainland. Moose are strong swimmers, though, so some folks think they may simply have swum to the island.

Wolves arrived on the island about 1949, probably for the first time in history, by undoubtedly crossing an ice bridge. And for the last several decades, wolf predation seems to have kept the moose from too severely over-populating the island. Sick or old moose and young calves are the primary prey of the wolves. Though wolf numbers vary from year to year, and at one time they numbered 50 individuals, they may be slowly dying out. The most probable cause is inbreeding, which results in reduced reproductive success. If the wolves disappear, the moose will surely enter a cycle with population booms and busts, as they periodically overshoot the island’s carrying capacity.

[Note: This story originally appeared in slightly different form in the spring 1996 issue of Illinois Audubon magazine, number 256.]

Isle Royale: A Wilderness Island in Lake Superior - Part 2 of 2

A Wilderness Camping Experience?

After spending two days as a pampered poodle at the lodge, I was anxious to camp on the other side of the island. To do this, I would have to cross Tobin Harbor and then portage a heavy 15-foot aluminum canoe and my backpack over the Greenstone Ridge 0.8 miles to Duncan Bay, described by some as the hardest portage on the island. It sounded fine to me, and I was on my way.

Duncan Bay from the Greenstone Ridge

There was a thick fog over Tobin Harbor when I left. At times it was a white-out condition in the middle of the bay, and though I could not tell which direction I was paddling, I could at least tell, by the pull of gravity, up from down. A loon popped up out of the water about twenty or thirty feet away and gave its laughing call, a vocalization indicating stress. I thought, "Right, tell me about it." Finally when I began the portage, it started to rain, then thunder and lightning. Birds were scarce in the rain.

Because of the heavy weight of the canoe, I had to stop and rest every few hundred feet of the 175-foot rise in elevation from Tobin Harbor. My heart was working overtime; I thought of the hundreds of pizzas I had consumed over decades and hoped that my heart and arteries were not completely encased in fat; yet all still seemed to be in working order and up to the task at hand. After setting up camp, I took the canoe out toward Blake Point along the Palisades, occasionally accompanied by several loons, about as far as I dared venture onto the open waters of Lake Superior, which seemed relatively calm for the moment. Singing white-throated sparrows were near the camp upon my return, and I looked forward to a night with only the sounds of the wilderness: wind blowing in the trees, owls and loons calling, perhaps even the howling of the island’s elusive wolves.

Canoeing out to Blake Point

But that was not to be. A party of boaters soon arrived and set up their camp at the next wooden shelter. They were immediately loud, but to their credit on this one solitary point, one of them came to my shelter during the early evening festivities with an invitation to join them and share a few drinks. Though they were friendly, I politely declined, hoping they might be quieter as a result. But true to my expectations, their raucous yelling and laughter continued until the early morning hours, getting louder as they became drunker.

Duncan Bay at sunset

At first light, I awoke angry, vowing never again to camp at a site accessible to powerboats, and I quickly and noisily broke down my camp with plans to head for another site far away form the powerboaters. Then an osprey flew over as I left, improving my disposition tremendously.

It may be a sad result, but from this experience I learned to avoid disappointments on future trips by lowering my expectations, especially when seeking something so ill-defined as a "wilderness experience." So I decided to return to the Rock Harbor Campground near the lodge, via the dreaded Duncan Bay portage, in preparation for the next day’s ferry trip back across the lake. On the trail, my spirits picked up when I saw cedar waxwings and a golden-crowned kinglet. And although it was difficult to observe birds while carrying the canoe, I did manage to hear an ovenbird and red-eyed vireo among many magnolia warblers. That afternoon a moose leisurely made its way around the Rock Harbor Campground, snacking on the lower branchlets of balsam fir saplings. The moose looked at me several times, yet seemed mostly unconcerned about my presence; I could not help being fascinated by the fact that this was a wild animal, prey for a pack of wolves, with no fear of humans. The moose apparently considered me to be a normal part of its surroundings, so perhaps at that point I was having a true "wilderness experience" after all. At any rate, it caused me to realize for the first time that such a concept is really just all in our minds, and can be defined however anyone may wish it to be.

Homeward Bound

I heard my last yellow-rumped warbler just before walking to the boat dock. When the Isle Royale Queen left Rock Harbor bound for the Keweenaw Peninsula, I was sad, knowing it would likely be a long time before I would see a wild moose, or hear a gray jay, red-breasted nuthatch, or winter wren. I had yet to hear a wolf howl or see my first black-backed woodpecker. The island, though, would always be there; and because of the powerful legal protection, would remain much as I remembered it. It was a comforting thought. Luxury condominiums and noisy highways would never be a part of Isle Royale.

Herring gulls followed as our small craft left the protection of Rock Harbor for the open waters of Lake Superior. With Isle Royale in our wake, I could clearly see the lookout tower at Mt. Ojibway on the Greenstone Ridge, where on another trip I had hiked and had been almost trampled on the trail by a crazed moose and calf. And I know that that could have easily happened, because Isle Royale is not a fantasy theme park; it is the real world; just ask an old moose.

Far from the island, the large swells, one after the other, tossed our boat like a piece of flotsam, sending heads hanging over the side. And I recalled the foreboding aura in the air on that first day out of Copper Harbor. So it was like returning to the security of a warm fireplace after coming in from a blizzard when we finally entered the sanctuary of Copper Harbor, where the swells finally and mercifully stopped. As we passed the Harbor Haus German Restaurant, we were greeted by the synchronous kick-dancing of the waitresses arm in arm on the restaurant’s outdoor deck, a daily tradition when the Queen returns safely. But that evening there was little doubt as to my choice for dinner: I would find a place that served pizza with extra cheese! Why change now? It has served me well over the years. And I must stay in shape for the next portage to Duncan Bay, when I am again beckoned by the migrating yellow-rumped warblers moving north through central Illinois.

[Note: This story originally appeared in slightly different form in the spring 1996 issue of Illinois Audubon magazine, number 256.]

A Western Birding Excursion: Of Wind, Rain, Rocks, and Renewal - Part 1 of 2

Usually after several years of not traveling much out of the Midwest, I develop a longing to see something different: birds and ecosystems, as well as cultures. For years the Colorado Plateau (centered on the Four Corners area of Utah, Arizona, Colorado, and New Mexico) has repeatedly drawn my attention; yet I had not been back for over a decade. So on a snowy, cold January evening, I made an early commitment to attend a volunteer service outing in April at Arches National Park, Utah. Then I spent the next three months planning my route and possible itinerary, all subject to change until the last minute.

Thinking of the West reminded me of all the bird species that I had missed on previous trips. I tend to miss species that others easily seem to find, probably from not being focused or ambitious enough to seriously look for specific birds, as a real birder would. One species, though, has gnawed at my conscience for over ten years: the ferruginous hawk. I may have seen one in Arizona in 1988. Or maybe not; it was not a good, clear sighting. I traveled to the West again later in 1988, then in 1990, and again in 1997. No ferruginous hawk. I have long recognized that I may not be the most observant person, but missing a ferruginous hawk after so many visits to the West was beginning to get embarrassing. Though I may always feel inferior to the hardcore birding intelligensia, I maintain that to lead a balanced life, it is probably best for me to avoid becoming too obsessed with finding new birds. Easier said than done? Perhaps.

* * *

After carefully packing everything I could think of (leaving behind the unabridged dictionary), I set out from central Illinois following a route designed to avoid traffic and big cities. In less than two hours I was west of the Mississippi River. But everything still looked like Illinois. At Swan Lake National Wildlife Refuge (NWR), Missouri, with its turbid water and levees, I could not help but feeling that I was at Chautauqua Refuge in Illinois. It was not until I visited Prairie State Park in southwestern Missouri that I felt at least on the fringe of the West. One of the first birds I heard was a western meadowlark. Then, while sitting on a rock and contemplating a buffalo wallow (the park has a herd of free-roaming buffalo), for some reason, I turned my head and looked up at just the right moment to see a low-flying Swainson’s hawk, a true raptor of the Great Plains. My trip to the West had a propitious beginning. I tried not to think about the ferruginous hawk except for the fact that I was probably still too far east to see one.

Because most travelers religiously follow the interstates, the county roads and two-lane highways tend to be lightly traveled, even on a holiday weekend. I stayed off the four-lane highways. St. Louis, Tulsa, Kansas City, and other big metropolitan areas remained merely names on a map. Avoiding their vast suburban areas and satellite subdivisions was difficult, though, noticeably more so than a decade earlier. Traveling the back roads also allowed me to maintain a certain intimacy with the land; it was easy to pull over at will if something caught my eye. Like in Kansas, when I made a screeching three-point turn after seeing a scissor-tailed flycatcher sitting on a barbed-wire fence.

Beginning in Oklahoma, I pulled off the road for nearly every raptor that even remotely looked like a ferruginous hawk. Most were red-tailed or Swainson’s hawks. In the old dust bowl lands of western Oklahoma, a kettle of several raptors soared over the highway. I quickly stopped. A farmer plowed his dusty field just below the soaring hawks, with the high winds picking up the dusty ol’ dust and blowing it all away in a cloud of dust. I stopped my tape of Woody Guthrie songs, shut off the engine, and proceeded to study each hawk; to my astonishment, they were all Swainson’s hawks. One suddenly began to dive at another, and as both headed downward to the ground, I saw 40 or 50 more standing around a large carcass, very near the tractor’s path. Only one bird mantled the dead animal and fed. The others hungrily looked on. Many were looking directly at me. The farmer, enveloped in the swirling dust, seemed to ignore both me and the hawks. Through my spotting scope, I carefully looked at each hawk, thinking that surely one must be a ferruginous hawk, but all were Swainson’s hawks! Soon the farmer must have gotten too near, because most of the hawks simultaneously took to the air, formed a giant tornadic kettle, and drifted northward on the wind and dust. The farmer kept plowing, and what could I do except continue onward. The farmer didn’t even wave.

The Great Plains is still wide, open land with few trees, especially the western plains. But it is not wild land. Public land is scarce, and cattle ranching is king. Most of the land is private and fenced for cattle. I don’t like to trespass; so onward I drove, the open country begging to be hiked across, a ferruginous hawk probably over a nearby hill. But I continued to drive, until Oklahoma’s 32,030-acre Salt Plains NWR.

Most of the Salt Plains Refuge is frustratingly inaccessible to the public. So although long hikes were out of the question, a few access points allowed for quiet wildlife viewing; quiet, that is, except for the maliciously blowing wind. At the official refuge shorebird observation platform I guess I should not have been surprised to find...well...shorebirds. There was a snowy plover among numerous peeps and sanderlings. And while closely watching a foraging common tern, almost too close for me to use binoculars, I noticed a distant osprey fly through my field of vision. Among the highlights at another part of the refuge were snowy egrets, a little blue heron, northern shovelers, green- and blue-winged teal, and a large foraging flock of American avocets. Salt Plains Refuge does not resemble Illinois, but the singing Carolina wren made me still feel too much of a connection with Illinois. I needed to go further. A proper visit to Salt Plains Refuge would have to wait until another year, perhaps during the sandhill crane migration.

Because of all the open space in the West, I naively expected the campgrounds to be spacious, spread-out affairs with campsites widely separated. But to my consternation, at most public campgrounds, space was miserly used at best. The state park campground near Salt Plains Refuge was too developed for my tastes, and the campsites were too close together with little screening vegetation. So onward I drove.

Later from my motel room window, far removed from the hum of campground generators, I observed dark, nasty weather slowly moving eastward. Strong, dangerous storms blew across Oklahoma and Missouri, and into Illinois. I thought of my house under the shade of a large Siberian elm tree. Would it be there upon my return in two and a half weeks? But that was eastward thinking. I was full of hope and heading west.

Black Mesa Nature Preserve is at the far northwestern corner of Oklahoma’s Panhandle. In terms of wildlife and plants, Black Mesa is an extension of the Rocky Mountains. Shortgrass prairie with pinyon pine, sagebrush, and Rocky Mountain juniper finally took away all thoughts of Illinois. And Black Mesa is in the Rocky Mountain time zone. I hiked to the top of the mesa all the while listening to western meadowlarks, and had to track down an unknown song to find a brown towhee, a species I had never seen before. Overhead, ravens soared and croaked on the strong and continuous winds. There were turkey vultures and red-tailed hawks. A large flock of pinyon jays flew across my path several hundred yards ahead. But I noticed, as I had before in other arid regions, that birds were few and far between. I sat within a jumble of boulders, scanning the skies for raptors. A male northern harrier glided past. More ravens. Eventually, thoroughly bludgeoned by the chilly wind, I shouldered my backpack and began the descending climb, at least a two-hour hike to the parking area.

Black Mesa Nature Preserve, Oklahoma

By New Mexico, I almost gave up trying to find a suitable campground. Perhaps the park designers all studied their trade in the shopping malls of Illinois. Maybe they think campers actually want to see and hear everything that other campers are doing, and which television show each is watching. That is not where my interests lie. So with unenthusiastic resignation I planned to spend yet another night in a motel, but now I wanted a motel near a Mexican restaurant. Toward that end I plotted a course for Santa Fe, with a brief stop at Las Vegas NWR, New Mexico.

Public access at Las Vegas Refuge is severely limited. But the refuge has several artificial ponds that attract migratory waterfowl, plus an auto tour from which the ponds may be viewed. It was far from a wilderness experience, but, especially in the West, water equals birds. At an observation deck, not far from the parking lot, I observed numerous waterfowl of several species plus several eared and pied-billed grebes. Off in the distant grasslands, closed to public access, a group of pronghorn antelope lounged in the late afternoon sun.

Then further along on the auto tour route, I stopped at a large pond, which was also very popular for bank fishing. I did not really expect to find much in the pond, considering all of the human activity. Yet not far from the bank were several western grebes, ruddy ducks, and canvasback ducks. I was slowly coasting along the dirt road looking for birds, driving with my knees and mostly avoiding potholes, when a cinnamon teal, a species I had never seen before, came into view not more than 20 feet away. I wanted to quickly stop, but another vehicle was behind me! After finally finding a place to pull off the road, and backtracking on foot, the bird, of course, was gone. At that moment I knew if I finally did see a ferruginous hawk, the sighting would undoubtedly occur under the worst of possible circumstances, probably while driving on a busy, fast-moving, four-lane highway, a few seconds before the road enters a long mountain tunnel.

Later, on the interstate highway en route to Santa Fe, I had no choice but to forget about birds. Billboards and passing by slow drivers (anyone traveling under 75 mph) now occupied my thoughts. And gift shops, gas, and junk food. Santa Fe promised many motels and restaurants. But Santa Fe was not user friendly. Immediately upon exiting the interstate, I was swept up in a great cascading stream of traffic in the new suburban developments, with bright lights and confusing signs directing me everywhere at once; I was a rat in a maze. There was no time to think. The thought struck that maybe I needed new glasses. Why did I feel like a daft tourist in a foreign country? Was this culture shock, after exclusively traveling the back roads through small towns designed for people, not for automobiles? My original plan to avoid big cities was a good one. At Santa Fe, I strayed from the right path, and in only a few more days the service outing would begin, when looking for birds would get a lower priority. It was time to get serious. But first, Mexican food was the highest priority.

See Part 2 for the rest of the story....

[Note: This story originally appeared in slightly different form in the summer 2001 issue of Illinois Audubon magazine, number 277.]

A Western Birding Excursion: Of Wind, Rain, Rocks, and Renewal - Part 2 of 2

Santa Fe was quick and painless. Traveling quickly, I soon found myself on the Navajo Reservation in Chinle, Arizona, near Canyon de Chelly National Monument. To avoid the other curious tourists, of which there were many, I checked out of the motel before sunrise. After driving several miles to a designated observation point, I walked a short trail that led to a canyon overlook, where Anasazi ruins were visible several hundred feet below. Later in the day, paying tourists would be shuttled in large groups to the distant ruins of the "Ancient Ones," ancestors of the modern day Pueblo tribes, on open trailers driven by Navajo guides, like a well-oiled theme park. I sat in the early morning light, on the edge of a sandstone cliff, watching white-throated swifts, violet-green swallows, ravens, and a highly energetic spotted towhee singing one song after another. Then long before the turkey vultures rode the canyon winds, I was bound for another Anasazi site at Hovenweep National Monument, Utah.

The campground at Hovenweep was nearly deserted. I quickly set up my tent, and was on the trail, embarking on a hot, dry hike to a remote Anasazi outpost. I had plenty of water, a bird guide, and a copy of Lonesome Dove, by Larry McMurtry. Although soaring raptors would be difficult to spot in the cloudless skies, with an isolated campsite to return to, I remained optimistic.

As expected, in the middle of the afternoon, birds were as scarce as ever, but rock wrens sometimes sang from the tops of the desert bluffs. And from the gnarly vegetation, a black-throated sparrow or plain titmouse occasionally sounded off. A mountain bluebird was an unexpected sight, helping to maintain the afternoon’s spirit of optimism. But except for the dependable ravens, the skies seemed empty. I panned and panned, thinking that a ferruginous hawk must be soaring above. But after returning to camp six hours later – still high from the great pleasure and privilege of being able to scrutinize a large, remote group of Anasazi ruins with no other visitors – the ferruginous hawk remained elusive. Like being tossed a bone from the desert spirits, a common poorwill sang a few notes just after sundown, just before the wind began to blow, a terrible wind that would blow birding and optimism to an oblivion for the next two days.

Though it may have been an illusion that wind increased as I traveled further west, it was no illusion that the land became rockier. Rock formations of startling proportions occupied views in all directions, in a landscape of rock and dusty, rocky soil. Overused phrases such as the "bones of the earth" can be excused as being simply a best description. It is in this area that the late Edward Abbey began his "...lifelong love affair with a pile of rock." The Colorado Plateau is, at least on the surface, one big pile of rock, but it immediately challenges the mind to comprehend its great range of scales. At one moment, the place seems vast in both time and space, endless and empty; while at the same time we are warned about our next moves, to stay on the official trails and avoid stepping on the sensitive cryptobiotic soil, an unusual association of bacteria, algae, lichens, mosses, and fungi. Damaged cryptobiotic soil could take years to recover from a footstep.

At Canyonlands National Park, Utah, the winds continued to blow, probably gusting to 50 miles per hour or more. In an entire afternoon of hiking, the only birds I saw were a few ravens and turkey vultures. The wind swallowed up all sound. So the immediate task was to find water, where there would also be birds.

On the Colorado Plateau, wind and water erosion combine to create unusual rock formations, an example of which is shown here at Canyonlands National Park, Utah.

The Scott M. Matheson Nature Preserve in Moab, Utah, protects 875 acres of rare wetlands along the Colorado River. Tamarisk, a non-native tree that is literally taking over western riparian areas, is also found in the preserve. Tamarisk forms dense, monocultural stands in which branches from neighboring trees interlock to form impenetrable thickets. Most of the preserve is free of tamarisk, but along the Colorado River, there is little else. I hiked along the river on a maintained trail and was surprised to see two mallards take flight from the turbid water and a school of non-native common carp sucking air from the water’s surface. The Colorado River began to seem more like a degraded river, and I became a bit depressed. Were it not for the many birds seen at this site, including a Bewick’s wren and Townsend’s solitaire, my disposition for the day would have been even more mixed.

* * *

True to my expectations of the service outing at Arches National Park, I did not find much time to pursue birds. We repaired trails and broke rock with pick axes, and told park visitors we were being punished for walking across the cryptobiotic soil; we hauled out tamarisk, and transplanted bunch grasses and prickly pear cactus to help restore an area where an underground water pipeline had been installed. It was hard work, dry and hot work. On one day, I drank over a gallon of water. It was great!

Midway through the service trip, our leader granted us a free day, which I used to follow a watercourse that led to a seldom visited, remote part of the park. All day I looked up at towering sandstone cliffs with strange eroded formations called hoodoos. Birds in the riparian woods were sparse by Illinois standards, but by then, I knew what to expect, and so, was not disappointed. Spotted towhees sang throughout the day, and blue-gray gnatcatchers, ruby-throated kinglets, and yellow-rumped warblers (Audubon’s variety with a yellow throat) were never far away. Near the furthest extent of the hike, while sitting against the stream bank reading, I looked up at just the right moment to see a distant flock of Brewer’s blackbirds as they flew quickly over the wash and over the canyon wall.

On the return hike, I walked at a slow pace, knowing it might be many years before another visit to Utah. Life gives us only one chance to see the world, and I had yet to travel beyond the contiguous 48 states and Ontario, Canada. If I had not been looking downward as much as up – so as not to trip, step in water, or walk off the trail – I might have missed the shadow, caused by a golden eagle, move across my path. But the eagle was quickly beyond the canyon wall and out of sight. And such is the case with my birding style, and why I tend to miss species. Sometimes, however, the birds find me.

So if I were only prepared once in a while, life would be much simpler. On one of the final workdays, I had to rapidly walk a couple hundred feet to retrieve my binoculars to confirm that the bird I heard was, in fact, a lark sparrow. That experience should have taught me a lesson that would have soon been put to good use, if I had known what was coming. But no lesson did I learn. Later I was trying to gather a shovel full of "soil" to transplant some Indian rice grass, concentrating on placing enough weight on the shovel to break through the cement-like ground without falling over, when I noticed a few others in our group looking toward the sky. They were watching a large gliding raptor. Oh no!! My binoculars were several hundred feet away! I dropped the shovel and ran for my backpack. But by the time I located the bird, it was much further away, though still close enough for some plumage details...which showed that this bird was definitely not a red-tailed hawk. Of course, it was the ferruginous hawk. Then all too quickly the bird was gone, gliding over the canyon walls. Yes, fortunately, sometimes the birds find me.

After the service outing ended, I would have only the next two days to drive from Utah to Illinois before it was time to return to work (i.e., gainful employment). The return trip was, to say the least, swift. I remember seeing a black-billed magpie somewhere in the Rocky Mountains; Kansas was windy; and I heard the first eastern meadowlark of my return trip in western Missouri.

Before too long, I was soon on the edge of a rock outcropping at Trail of Tears State Park, Missouri, looking down on the Mississippi River and across at Illinois’ Shawnee Hills, putting off the inevitable just a little longer. I listened to parula, yellow-throated, and Kentucky warblers, wood thrush, scarlet and summer tanagers, and more. On the river, a fish crow called as it stood on a log, floating downstream; a Mississippi kite glided over the river, and soon passed out of sight behind the river bluffs. It was not bad being back in the Midwest.

With almost 4,500 miles behind me and several new bird species, especially the ferruginous hawk, I felt satisfied. The West had grudgingly yielded a few more of its secrets. Untold secrets will continue to draw my attention. For I know that I will not be able to stay away from the Colorado Plateau for too long. So am I now in love with a pile of rock? Why not? A pile of rock offers no disappointments and cannot break a heart. For a time, though, my interest in the Midwest has been renewed. Without doubt, the Midwest also has many secrets yet to be revealed. Onward then, to Illinois.

[Note: This story originally appeared in slightly different form in the summer 2001 issue of Illinois Audubon magazine, number 277.]