The River Landing

Nighthawks on the Move

Sitting outside in our yard, reading and looking up into the sky.  How so unlike this it was in May and June, being presecuted by the buffalo gnats!  Now I can sit and stare, and nothing bothers me.  I looked up when I heard a bank swallow calling far overhead, and then four nighthawks glided over my home.  Staging in the skies, preparing for the fall migration, or probably in the midst of it.  What if they were from the north country, where I have just returned from.  Door County, Wisconsin, nighthawks?

American White Pelicans Coming Home to Roost

August 25, 2009

We came out to the Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge, my wife and I, in the early evening for a fruit and cheese supper at the Eagle Bluff Access area, to relax on our fold-up chairs for a quiet time observing life on the refuge, perhaps a bit of reading, and to watch the sun fall below the bluffs across the Illinois River valley. But except for a few swallows of various kinds, great blue herons, and double-crested cormorants, there was not much wildlife activity on the refuge; not even a need for setting up the spotting scope.

After our supper, and just before sundown, we left the observation deck for a walk across the refuge, toward the Illinois River, on the levee that separates the refuge’s north and south pools of Lake Chautauqua. And that was also when many birds became increasingly active. There were more foraging swallows, which passed over the cross levee on their way between the two refuge pools; several loudly calling Caspian terns; a great horned owl hooting from obscurity within the black willow thickets; and a lone pectoral sandpiper that drew our attention on the barren sand along the water’s edge. Then at once, we saw a line of American white pelicans flying in an long, undulating, repeating pattern across the sky, then another group, and then still another, which abruptly changed direction as the group flew low directly above us, apparently nervous about flying so close to two human beings. Before too long, more pelicans flew over, and we estimated a couple thousand that joined together into one large grouping in the far corner of the refuge’s north pool, gathering together in a large night roost on the water.

As the sun sank below the horizon, we heard loudly calling cicadas, another sure sign of summer’s imminent end.

 

Canoeing the Willow Thickets of Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge

September 19, 2009

I launched my canoe at the old boat ramp at Chautauqua Refuge’s south pool. At this time of the year, the water would normally be quite low, sometimes even too shallow for a canoe. But refuge managers have kept the water levels deep for the last couple of years in an attempt to set back the black willow thicket that is threatening to take over the south pool. Extensive rains and a frequently flooding Illinois River this year have encouraged this effort.

From a distance, the flooded willow thickets look impenetrable. But a closer approach would show that the trees are spaced far enough apart for canoe travel. The thickets, which began growing in earnest about 15 years ago, have been self-thinning and growing taller ever since; beavers have also been thinning the willows a bit as attested by their numerous cuttings and occasional lodges. But the flooding keeps succession from proceeding as it normally would toward a silver maple-green ash forest. This thicket that is becoming a forest is solid black willow, with the largest individuals about 10 inches in diameter and 25 to 30 feet tall.

Out in the open water, migrating tree swallows kept me company, darting close to the canoe as they gulped insects to fuel their southward migrations. At the willow thicket, which seemed to cover a not insignificant proportion of the south pool, a great blue heron took flight from a willow perch. And great egrets stood on branches that barely protruded from the water. A belted kingfisher perched on a higher snag, and let out its usual rattle call as I floated past. Though I was still on the open water, from within the flooded willow forest I heard wood duck calls echoing from the trees. At one point, ten wood ducks flew from the shelter of the willows; and I speculated that a true survey of the entire thicket-forest would undoubtedly yield many more. The willows are clearly providing birds with needed habitat, though obviously not the open-water diving ducks or ducks of open marshes.

For a few moments, I enjoyed the warm morning sun on my back; but I paddled onward, bound for the cool shelter of the willows, where I planned to have an early lunch and read. Then a loud, high-pitched calling from the willow edge commanded my attention. My first thought was "shorebird," but then I estimated the shallowest water in the willows was about four feet deep; so, I reasoned, a shorebird could not have made that sound. And then I saw the osprey, flying directly toward me. It probably used the willows as a night roost and early morning foraging perch, and was awaiting mid-morning thermal activity before continuing southward on its journey. The bird circled around and then rapidly gained altitude, before soaring away toward the southwest. I struggled to keep the bird in my binoculars as the breeze continually turned my canoe in the wrong direction for viewing. But within a few minutes, the osprey was nearly beyond sight, and so I continued with my paddling business, to the willows and shade.

Hiding in the black willows at Chautauqua NWR.

Looking for Signs at Sand Hill Savanna

Today I thought to look for signs of the deepening fall season, remnants of summer, and the impending winter. The Illinois River is always my first thought for such activities, but I am lazy on this cool, early October Saturday morning, not up for a drive of even the few miles it would take to get to the river. With breakfast under my belt, I opt for a simple walk around our rural homestead – perhaps to see some migrating birds such as sharp-shinned hawks and boreal forest warblers, the kinds of species that generate nostalgic thoughts of the north woods of upper Michigan, scenes of so many favorite times.

On the edge of our woods, I can see for a mile across the light tans of still unharvested corn crops and the yellowish-greens of soybean fields. Harvests are already underway elsewhere around Mason County, and the bounties of summer will soon be trucked away and stored in vast grain bins along the river, then transported downstream on fleets of towboat-barges to points unknown, perhaps even exotic destinations on strange foreign shores.

Sand Hill Savanna with bur oaks, hazelnut, and prairie grasses.

At the portion of our property that we have named "Sand Hill Savanna," hazelnut leaves show signs of orange; heath aster still blooms; only a few purple asters still are with flowers; the showy goldenrod is nearly finished; and the prairie grasses are in their final stages. Bees are concentrated on the few goldenrods still with bright yellow flowers, lethargically gathering as much pollen as they are able, before it is all gone; they move slowly and unenthusiastically, their actions appropriately in tune with the gray skies and with me as I drag myself back to the house for another cup of coffee.

Later as I tilt my head backward to sip the dark, warm liquid, I hear a slight, thin sound of a bird calling from our withered mulberry tree, and catch a fleeting glimpse of a ruby-crowned kinglet – just passing through, perhaps from Isle Royale in Lake Superior on its way to the Texas coast. In a few seconds, the bird is gone, and I soon notice a close-knit group of six northern flickers poking around in the mowed grass near the vegetable garden, which still shows a bit of red from ripe tomatoes yet to be picked.

Showy goldenrod with bees, Sand Hill Savanna, 2009.

It may be surprising that I am looking forward to the coming winter. But I find the diversity of seasons here in central Illinois interesting, though I am sure that such thoughts are a luxury not shared by the birds that I watch.

An Illinois River Bluff Hike and Turning 52

I rolled out of bed the morning of my 52^nd birthday feeling the usual familiar pains in my left foot and lower backside. But I truly felt no older than I had felt the year before, and actually felt quite younger than those first shocking moments of turning 50 – which really was not so bad after all. Folks decades older, I am sure, would think of such thoughts as ridiculous folly. For my birthday gift, I chose a hike with my wife Julie on the Illinois River bluffs at Forest Park South Nature Preserve.

As I dressed, in my mind’s eye I contrasted the view from the back door of our Mason County home, a rather flat to gently rolling countryside, with the rugged bluffs at Peoria that abruptly rise some 200 feet above the river; the bluffs more resemble foothills of the Missouri Ozarks than central Illinois’ agricultural landscape. From Havana, we followed the river bluffs in a northeasterly direction just beyond Peoria to the Forest Park Nature Center. Then without delay, we began our hike to the bluff tops; it was a steep hike at times, and I had to favor my right knee, for a moment feeling older than my years, lest I cause aggravation of an old injury. Just as we entered the woods, I heard a white-breasted nuthatch, tufted titmouse, and black-capped chick-a-dee, and I knew that we were in the midst of a mixed-species flock of birds foraging their way through the forest, looking for insects in crevices of tree bark or snapping up an occasional seed or berry. In a moment, there was a brown creeper and downy woodpecker, all part of the diffuse flock.

Part way to the top of the bluff we sat and rested upon a large boulder, listening and watching the birds moving onward. The boulder was certainly a hard seat, but it reminded me that the river bluffs were actually formed thousands of years ago at the edge of a great glacier that grinded across the land from the top of the world, that reached all the way around the earth’s northern hemisphere to Siberia. The glacier ended at Peoria where it melted at the same rate as it moved forward for thousands of years, dropping rocks, boulders, gravel, and sand onto a terminal moraine like a giant conveyor belt. The boulder we rested on, in fact, was once probably in Canada.

After a few minutes, we continued our hike to the bluff top. Once reaching the ridge, the trail was more level and the hike was easier. I recalled from a previous hike on this trail encountering an elderly gentleman walking with a cane, and I thought that if I could do the same in a few decades, I would feel satisfied, to say nothing of feeling extremely fortunate.

We enjoyed walking through the mature oak-hickory forest, noticing signs of its struggle against being overtaken by sugar maple and ironwood trees. Some of the oldest oak trees have experienced heart rot, a typical condition for old trees, and have fallen or lost large branches in recent wind and ice storms. The fallen trees were old before I was born, but as long as their seedlings survive to reach the canopy, future forests will be maintained with the same species assemblage and resemble today’s forest, though the actual canopy trees will likely be different individuals.

Prairie opening at Forest Park South Nature Preserve.

Eventually the trail entered an open area, part woodland and part prairie, that may be termed a savanna or barrens. The prairie opening follows the ridge line, especially on the south- and southwestern-facing slopes. Here I expected to see red-headed woodpeckers, who thrive in such habitats, but the woodpeckers were elusive or absent. From out vantage point at the prairie, we had an unobstructed view of a portion of upper Peoria Lake, which fills the river valley. Even with the beautiful view, I found it impossible to look upon the lake and not recall its many intractable environmental problems, not the least of which is the lake’s loss of depth due to siltation from watershed erosion. With recent heavy and frequent rains, the tributaries were all running high and muddy, and Peoria Lake has less volume with every passing day. How long this may continue, I do not know, but I hope that the day may not come within my lifetime for the lake to be shallow enough for black willow trees to survive, vanguards of a floodplain forest, where now there is only open water.

Barrens at Forest Park South Nature Preserve.

At the edge of the prairie opening, Julie and I sat on our favorite bench for a few minutes and watched a soaring red-tailed hawk. Several homes along Grandview Drive were visible from the bench, and I thought that any of those houses may not be a bad place to live; I wondered if we were being watched.

Before too long, we took the distant approach of two hikers as a signal to leave, and began our return hike. At our last view of the barrens opening, I stopped to look backward, to fix the view upon my mind, thinking about when I might return – hopefully many times over many healthful years. And I turned to Julie who said, "The hike felt good." Indeed, it did.

A Tale of Two Floodplain Lakes

– November 27, 2009 –

A panoramic view of Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge opened before me as I stood on the observation platform at the bluff edge. Looking directly west, expanses of open water, floodplain forests, and blue skies dominated my view; the Illinois River was obscured by the intervening forests, and beyond the river was another large floodplain lake called "Thompson Lake." Since it has been my experience from previous years that the waters of Lake Chautauqua in late autumn would be teeming with waterfowl, with my binoculars I took a quick sweep of the wide view. But surprisingly, except for a small group of mallards, I saw few waterfowl. This I found to be strange indeed, especially in late November; and so, I decided to sit on a nearby bench for a while, and hope that other birds might show up.

Eagle Bluff Access in summer, Chautauqua Refuge.

After five or ten minutes, a small group of greater white-fronted geese flew over the refuge and continued onward to the northeast. Soon a few Bonapart’s gulls passed, alternately flying and diving into the water. But during my observation period, other than one fast-moving group of five common goldeneyes, a single bufflehead, two American black ducks, and twenty Canada geese, this large waterfowl refuge continued to seem rather empty of waterfowl. But it made me wonder what might be happening at Thompson Lake. Was the waterfowl migration simply in a regional slump, with few ducks anywhere, or was there a difference between bird use of these two floodplain lakes. Of course, the only way to find the answers would be to immediately travel to Thompson Lake.

Though Thompson Lake was about three miles away from Chautauqua Refuge’s headquarters by line of sight, to reach it I first had to drive six miles south to Havana, cross the Illinois River, and then drive another two or three miles northward on state route 78, before finding a place to pull off of the two-lane levee road, just beyond reach of the rather constant highway traffic. I did not say "safe place to pull off" because there really is no such thing on SR 78. The busy highway traffic on the levee road seems to be mostly composed of folks engaged in serious travel, not slow-moving wildlife watchers looking for rare birds. So just before reaching one of several steep exit lanes that abruptly lead, at right angles, off of the highway levee, I quickly checked my rearview mirror, to make sure I was not being tailgated by a massive semi truck, and turned off the road. The exit ramp was muddy, soft, and steep; and even with a four-wheel drive vehicle, I was not confident that I could make the climb back up the levee. So I stayed parked near the top, just beyond the highway pavement. (It should be noted that wildlife viewing on Thompson Lake can also be accomplished at the boat launching area a bit further north on SR 78.)

But what I saw next almost allowed me to forget all about automobiles, loud pickup trucks, loud motorcycles, and semi trucks. Thompson Lake, nearly two miles wide and three or four miles long, seemed to be literally bank to bank full of waterfowl! There were thousands of waterbirds in view in every direction, as far as I could see. American coots were overwhelmingly the most abundant species. Ruddy ducks and ring-necked ducks were also quite numerous, though much less so than the coots. Northern shoveler, gadwall, canvasback, lesser scaup, pied-billed grebe, and horned grebe were also present. The contrast with Lake Chautauqua could not have been greater.

Later, as I waited for a break in the fast-moving vehicles so that I could safely enter the stream of highway traffic, I began to think more in depth about what I had just witnessed. Why was Chautauqua Refuge so little used compared with Thompson Lake? I felt certain the answer involved factors such as habitat quality, habitat structure, and food availability, or a certain combination of these and perhaps other factors. Of course, one major factor, the "elephant in the room," is the Illinois River itself. Thompson Lake is protected from the river’s degrading influences¹ by a massive levee, while Chautauqua Refuge is frequently connected to the river through a system of spillways and gates. At any rate, because these two floodplain lakes are part of my regular route for making natural history observations, I hoped to  answer my own questions one day soon.

Illinois River (left), levee, Thompson Lake (right), in 2009.

Chautauqua Refuge spillway with flooding river, in 2007.

¹ For more information on the Illinois River, see the "River Reading List" in the "Categories" section on The River Landing’s home page (left panel).

The Color of Hope

Here in central Illinois, we are in the midst of a weak January thaw. There is still quite a bit of ice and snow cover, and with the damp air, our days have been engulfed in fog, including ice fog at times. The view outside our window is cheerful as the Gulag: melting ice and dirty snow; soggy, rotting leaves from last fall; fog-obscured distances, giving a closed-in feeling; and winter’s grayness in the extreme.

Northern Cardinal (Image by J.A. Lerczak)

But there is an obvious fight against despondency in the air too; every bit of fog-dampened color is a defiant contrast: the green pine trees that I planted several years ago; plump, brown fox squirrels at the bird feeder; red northern cardinals and house finches; and, inside our home, the colorful salad that my wife Julie has made for our lunch. With the kitchen window and the bleakness outside as a backdrop, the salad, with its bright green Romaine lettuce, red cherry tomatoes, orange carrots, and yellow cheese curds, presented another kind of contrast in color and mood to winter’s grip. I thought, with hope and joy, of the food our vegetable garden will produce later this year, of blue skies with billowing clouds, singing birds, and of a warming spring sun – still months away – giving life to the garden and health to the soul.

Bleakness ends with the color of hope.

The Missing Red-headed Woodpeckers of Sand Prairie-Scrub Oak Nature Preserve

Sand Prairie-Scrub Oak Nature Preserve is a 1,460-acre site located in Mason County a few miles east of the Illinois River. The site is mostly oak-hickory woodland and savanna, but sand prairie also occupies a large percentage of the area. I have been a regular visitor to this preserve since 1991. It was during one of my early visitations that I first noticed an unusual number of overwintering red-headed woodpeckers in the preserve’s mature black oak woodlands; with leaves gone from the vegetation, the woodlands are much more open, and it is possible to see quite a distance through the trees and learn the contours of the land. So even at a distance, the red-headed woodpeckers stood out against the dominant dull grays and browns of the trees. And if I missed the actual appearance of a woodpecker, it would not be too long before I would hear their distinctive calls, sometimes from several directions at once. Their bright colors and energetic defenses of small winter territories, with caches of acorns, were a welcome contrast to the silent woods and cold, forbidding winds.

Sand Prairie-Scrub Oak Nature Preserve

Each year thereafter I looked forward to seeing the overwintering red-headed woodpeckers of Sand Prairie-Scrub Oak Nature Preserve. And I often thought of taking counts of their numbers, but was usually too preoccupied with simply enjoying the wild landscape and finding my way; the preserve has no trails, and so on my first forays I relied heavily upon the sun, or compass on cloudy days, to find my way. I also was not sure what I would do with the data if I did make counts. So I did not have a great motivation for counting.

But then in 2003 I bought a computer and discovered eBird, an Internet database managed by Cornell University’s Laboratory of Ornithology. The eBird database is used not only to store bird count data of all types and from all types of individuals, but it is used as a source of data for scientists to analyze and discover patterns and long-term trends in bird populations. For me, eBird gave a purpose to counting birds. After becoming aware of eBird, I found it difficult to visit Sand Prairie-Scrub Oak Nature Preserve and not count birds. And rather than hiking with no particular destination in mind, I began to follow a standard route over a similar time span so that my counts would not be overly biased by the amount of effort I expended. And so beginning in the fall of 2003, I made a point of systematically counting birds whenever I visited Sand Prairie-Scrub Oak Nature Preserve during the overwintering months. And I dutifully entered all of my counts into the eBird database (http://ebird.org/content/ebird/).

For the first few years, my counts of red-headed woodpeckers were fairly consistent (see accompanying figure), even given an inherent and unknown degree of variability. Then on January 7, 2007, I counted an all-time high number of red-headed woodpeckers, about twice the number (40) that I usually counted (an average of 21 per count up to October 14, 2006). But by the fall of 2007, the counts dramatically declined to a new low (13). I missed counting in 2008. And when I returned in the spring of 2009, I had trouble finding even the one red-headed woodpecker that I did record; on the February 1, 2010 count, I found none.

 

Of course, it has long been known that populations of overwintering red-headed woodpeckers vary with oak mast (acorns) production. They gather acorns, store them in tree holes, much of the time in standing dead trees, and then live off their acorn caches over the winter months. Years when mast is abundant tend to have higher numbers of overwintering red-headed woodpeckers in a given area than years with poor mast production, when the migrating woodpeckers fly to areas with more abundant mast. Although I made no attempt over the years to assess the availability of oak and hickory mast at Sand Prairie-Scrub Oak Nature Preserve, I would be surprised if mast production since I began counting birds at the preserve did not follow along with red-headed woodpecker numbers.

Blue jays also have a strong affinity for acorns. The figure of data shows that although blue jay counts do not perfectly mirror red-headed woodpecker counts – and I would not really expect this, given the unknown complexities usually associated with counting anything in the wild – the high count of blue jays occurred on the same date as the high count of red-headed woodpeckers (January 7, 2007), and then both declined. And this is exactly what I would expect if both species were responding to mast production.

Of course, assigning a definitive cause for a given observation is a difficult task, even when it appears to be obvious, as in this case. If I had quantitative information on mast production from 2003 to 2010, I would be in a better position to examine the possible causes behind the changes in red-headed woodpecker and blue jay counts. And there might be other factors. What, for example, about the effects of weather? Or white-tailed deer populations, a species also known to consume mast? How would these or other factors affect red-headed woodpecker populations?

What I do know for sure, and this is even borne out in my red-headed woodpecker and blue jay counts, is that the natural world is dynamic, and change is always occurring, sometimes quickly so that we notice (a crash in red-headed woodpecker populations) and sometimes so slowly that a long-term perspective is necessary and only sensitive scientific instruments may be capable of detecting the change (continental drift). This latter type of change (slow over a long time) has helped give rise to the idea that an undisturbed natural world is in a stable and balanced condition, an idea that has been profoundly discredited (for an excellent account of this charge, see the book Discordant Harmonies: A New Ecology for the Twenty-First Century, by Daniel B. Botkin, published by Oxford University Press in 1990). In fact, expectations of stability, even or especially on a global scale, are sure to be disappointed when change is finally noticed. This is especially the case when we begin counting and measuring events or organisms, where it is inevitable that change over time is what we find. And as the scale of what is being examined increases, determining the cause for change becomes orders of magnitude more difficult and less certain.

I have no idea if the year 2010 will or will not be a mast year at Sand Prairie-Scrub Oak Nature Preserve. But I will be there next fall, looking for the missing red-headed woodpeckers to return. I am quite confident that they will eventually return, but during which year, I cannot say; anymore than seven years ago I could have predicted that they would fall to low numbers during the winter of 2009-2010.

[This article has appeared in the Summer 2010 issue of Illinois Audubon magazine, which is published by the Illinois Audubon Society (www.illinoisaudubon.org).]

A Coyote Encounter at Icy Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge

February 27, 2010

The day’s weather was expected to be mostly cloudy, quite windy, and cold. But snow geese were beginning to show up in ever larger numbers in the skies over Havana. So it was time to make a short visit to Chautauqua Refuge; even though I knew beforehand, because of a long stretch of below-freezing weather, that its surface would mostly be frozen, and wildlife would likely be scarce.

At the head of the nature trail, the winds seemed almost calm, and I optimistically thought of having a chance to sit at one of the observation decks for a couple of hours without enduring much cold. But as I followed the trail through the forest, I could hear the winds become progressively louder through the treetops as the trail approached the bluff edge. At the furthest deck, northwest winds screamed without obstruction off the frozen lake surface directly into my face, and I knew my time for observations would be limited. And so I wrapped my head in a thick scarf, cleaned ice and snow off the bench, and poured a cup of hot coffee from my thermos.

Chautuaqua Nature Trail

A few Canada geese and several hundred greater white-fronted geese followed the Illinois River valley northward, and an adult eagle soared over the river near what I assumed was its nest. The Arctic scene before me inspired thoughts of admiration for any wildlife that could scratch food and shelter from such circumstances; it must not be an easy life. But this was good. The coffee kept me warm, and I was comfortable in my heavy clothing.

Every once in a while the ice cracked loudly and made other strange sounds, which suggested that while the ice may have been thick and solid, as a mass it moves and heaves with the waters below as pressures change and build. In fact, after a closer look, I noticed that all of the willow thickets, with their bases in water below the ice sheet, were leaning at about a 20 degree angle. Was this due to one massive movement of ice or had it been imperceptibly gradual over several weeks or days? [Recently, there has been an effect of the same process at Thompson Lake (Emiquon) across the Illinois River, where utility poles, with their bases locked within lake ice, have been pushed and snapped by the moving ice sheet.]

Thompson Lake "Emiquon" at Route 78

Then as I took another sip of coffee and re-adjusted my scarf to seal in the warmth, I noticed a coyote on the frozen lake surface, trotting along probably a quarter mile away. I set my coffee down, and through binoculars could see that it was a healthy-looking animal, solidly built and with a good coat. The coyote loped at a brisk no-nonsense pace, alert eyes and ears facing forward, moving almost in a straight line. At a certain point, though, one of the coyote’s senses must have detected something, because the animal quickly stopped to investigate the ice more closely: perhaps a dead fish frozen in the ice or a scent mark by another coyote. But after a few seconds, with wind chill in the low teens and its energy being drained away in the cold, the coyote plodded onward.

When I took another sip of coffee, its heat too had been dissipated by the cold and was gone forever; it’s the Second Law of Thermodynamics after all. And on that note, I packed up my belongings and followed the snow-covered trail back to the parking lot. It was time for lunch, which at least I would have no trouble finding.

One Muddy Walk at Spoon River Bottoms

March 14, 2010

Though the past winter had not been so bad in central Illinois, not even one crippling snow storm or day with a high temperature below zero, I still felt a bit weary from too many gray, indoor days. So even on a damp, dismal Sunday, with occasional light drizzle, I left home for a hike along the Spoon River to where it empties into the Illinois River at the Emiquon National Wildlife Refuge. Because of frequent flooding and ice cover, I had not been to this location for months. And so I did not know exactly what to expect – except, following several days of rain, extremely muddy conditions. But mud is what I always expect on the river bottoms. In fact , it’s part of the general experience.

Flooded Spoon River Bottoms, Emiquon NWR.

The small gravel parking area just east of state route 78 was covered in a thin layer of slippery silt deposited from flood waters that had only recently receded. Other vehicles that had strayed from the gravel left behind deep ruts in the mud as a warning. I briefly questioned whether my plan for the morning was a good idea, but quickly dismissed such apprehensions, grabbed my backpack, and headed toward the nearby Spoon River.

Most of the bottomlands were still flooded, but along the Spoon River’s banks there is a natural levee, or higher ground, that was still about 2 feet above the fast-moving river with its light brown, powerfully moving flood waters. Two immature bald eagles took flight as I approached the river, and then circled low overhead as I began my mile-long hike to the Illinois River. In the oxbow lakes and flooded forests I saw ring-necked ducks, mallards, and Canada geese. Paired-up wood ducks flew overhead, the females calling out in alarm. And I heard distant songs of Carolina wrens, tufted titmice, and black-capped chickadees. These were good signs, even as the spitting drizzle alternately came and went.

Most everything I touched seemed to be either slightly damp or wet and slippery; leaves that had fallen last year had the consistency of wet tissue paper. And I could not venture too far from the Spoon River without the ground becoming soft and mushy, so I stayed fairly close to its banks. At a gentle bend in the river, I could see far up- and downstream; I searched in vain for a belted kingfisher or great blue heron. And then I first truly noticed how water-saturated and unstable were the river’s banks, appearing to be nearly on the verge of collapse, perhaps just at the angle of repose. Would another 200 pounds make a difference, I wondered? Most of the riparian trees leaned over the river precariously low, and there was clear evidence of recently collapsing banks. But this is the natural process, after all, by which rivers meander, and how the refuge’s oxbow lakes were gradually formed. I walked onward, stepping lightly.

Finally at the Illinois River, I found a tree leaning at just the right angle to make for a nice backrest. I unpacked my lunch and took in my surroundings. Ring-billed gulls flew up and down the river, and nearby a pileated woodpecker called, though the bird itself remained hidden. I heard gurgling sounds from the Spoon River as its water rushed over tree branches and roots protruding from the riverbanks. The Spoon River injected its woody debris into the slower moving Illinois River, the debris then slowly passing by the town of Havana, visible across the river. I was reminded of the many times over the past winter I had sat in my vehicle at the Riverfront Park, gazing in the direction of the inaccessible Spoon River bottoms. For the moment, no one at the park that I could see looked back in my direction.

Mouth of the Spoon River.

As my binocular’s field of view followed a red-tailed hawk flying over the Illinois River, the upper branches of tall silver maple trees came into focus. Their branches displayed a subtle reddish hue from many small wind-pollinated flowers. The season was progressing, despite present conditions. But the cold, damp winds off the river were a stronger cue, one indicating that it was probably time to leave. In the direction of the Spoon River, there was a large splash that sounded like part of the bank collapsing, forcing me to recall foreboding thoughts from earlier in the morning.

Knowing that better days were ahead, I walked more deliberately back to the parking lot than on the way out, intent on not being caught in heavy rains should conditions worsen. Only once, among all of the gray and subdued browns of the bare forests, did I delay my progress: to view the bright yellow caps of two diminutive, highly energetic golden-crowned kinglets which stood out in contrast against the background of color and mood of the day more than anything I had seen so far. Their feathers were so clean, crisp, and bright compared to the sky, forests, and myself with mud on every piece of clothing. Clean: good; dirt: bad. I made a strong mental note regarding my mud-encased shoes: remove them before entering the house – a clear indication of a husband whose domestic education is quite complete.

An Illinois River Hill Prairie Fire

For prairies to persist in Illinois, with a climate that has long favored wooded habitats over grassland, periodic fire is a requirement. Later in the spring, a burned-off prairie will revive from its extensive underground root system, and prairie wildflowers and grasses may gain a competitive advantage over always encroaching shrubs and trees.

Of Illinois’ few remaining original prairies, hill prairies are some of the best examples. They occur on southwestern-facing bluff tops bordering river valleys, places that are too steep or rugged for farming. This photo essay shows the burning of a small glacial drift hill prairie at Crevecoeur Nature Preserve (Fort Crevecoeur Park) in Tazewell County, Illinois, on March 30, 2010.

 

* * *

At 11:15 AM, relative humidity was 41%, air temperature 56 ^oF, and wind was blowing 8 to 10 miles per hour from the south-southeast – in Photo 1, essentially from left to right, directly across the hill prairie ridge. The Illinois River is visible through the trees on the right-hand side of the photograph.

Photo 1.

* * *

To avoid a wild fire, controlled burns usually begin by lighting a back fire (Photo 2), which moves slowly against the wind. Later, a head fire (i.e., with the wind) will be lit, and the two will meet and burn each other out.

Photo 2.

* * *

In Photo 3, the back fire is being lit just inside of the tree line, beyond and around the base of the ridge. At this point, the back fire will turn into the head fire (Photo 4). Meanwhile, the back fire has been gradually moving up the slope, creating a wider burned off area that will prevent the head fire from further advancing. Note in Photo 5 the blackened area visible in the foreground, a result of the back fire reaching this point on the ridge top.

Photo 3.

Photo 4.

Photo 5.

 

* * *

Flames, burning debris, and ash from the head fire are being whipped across the ridge by brisk winds (Photo 6). In seconds, the back and head fires will meet. The main fire is out (Photo 7 and Photo 8), and only smoke is being swiftly carried across the ridge. Blackened ground and smoldering embers of woody debris and bunch grasses are all that remain. But before too much time passes, green shoots of prairie plants will begin emerging from the black; without the previous year’s interfering thatch, the growing plants will receive greater amounts of sunlight than in years without fire.

 
Photo 6.

Photo 7.

Photo 8.

* * *

The Context of Burning. There are seemingly hundreds of details, large and small, to keep track of when planning a safe, controlled fire: writing a detailed burn plan, constructing fire breaks and other labor-intensive site preparations, notification of neighbors and local fire departments, checking and repairing equipment, obtaining weather forecasts, and assembling a crew (one does not burn alone), to name only a few. Still, the evening before the scheduled burn, uncertainty about the weather remains. How accurate is the forecast? Could it change at the last minute? Will it be too wet, too dry, too humid, too hot, not hot enough, too windy, wind from the wrong direction? Should the burn crew be notified to assemble the next day as planned or should the burn be called off?

The responsibilities weigh heavily upon the burn leader; anxiety levels run high. The night before a burn, dreams are filled with visions of fire, sleep is fitful, the mind races.

After the burn crew has been mobilized and de-briefed and equipment is in place, the back fire may be lit; later, the head fire. Sometimes the flames of the head fire quickly rise to a roar, like an uncaged lion, and go charging off. The cat is out of the bag. Pandora’s Box has been opened. But if the burn has been well planned, and that better be the case, there is nothing to fear: the fire will burn out of its own accord as planned.

It is only then, after the fire is out, that there is time enough to recall the context in which we are burning: unleashing a force upon the land in a similar way, though on a smaller scale, as Native Americans had done for thousands of years. Were it not for their burning, it is unlikely that prairies would have survived in Illinois, from encroachments of forests, to greet the first European explorers. But when the Europeans finally did arrive, they saw an untrammeled Illinois wilderness; though to the Native Americans, that same scene was home and a landscape highly influenced by their activities.

Such thoughts might be briefly reflected upon immediately after a burn, but there is still much more work to be done; though one may be weary from smoke and stress, control lines must be checked again to ensure that the fire is truly out and everything is secure. If that is the case, fire control equipment will then be gathered and the burn crew released.

Returning to the burn scene the following day is a good idea, to walk the fire breaks again and more closely inspect the burn results, checking whether or not the fire had lived up to expectations. Did it help set back woody encroachment? Was it a complete burn or a mosaic of burned and unburned areas? Will another burn be required next year or should it wait a few years. Lack of evaluation would be almost as bad as not burning at all. Once begun, the work never ends.

[NOTE:  This article has been published in the Fall 2010 issue of Illinois Audubon magazine.  See www.illinoisaudubon.com.] 

Habitat Diversity at Home

As I quietly approached a ten-year-old red cedar tree at the edge of my property, a female brown thrasher even more quietly slipped away on the opposite side of the tree. Near the cedar’s trunk, through a small gap in the prickly branches, I saw her nest. Neither were there, I thought, ten years ago, when I purchased this older rural home with about 3.5 acres east of Havana, Illinois.

Brown thrasher nest in red cedar

At age 42, I had finally become a homeowner. On the property were the house and shed, a few large trees, some shrubs, a wooded boundary on two sides, and a wide expanse of mowed lawn. American robins liked the mowed grass, but this cultural habitat appealed to few other species. At first, I was not sure what I planned to do with the property, except not mow several acres of grass. On the day I moved in, I planted three bur oak tree seedlings, then let most of the property " go natural." Over the years, I have scattered black oak acorns, hickory nuts, hazelnuts, and seeds from native prairie grasses and wildflowers. I have used fire to encourage the native prairie and savanna species over non-native species; and lately, because the term "savanna" refers to a transitional habitat between prairie and forest with elements of each, I have begun thinking of this property, which rests on a small stabilized sand hill, as a sand savanna habitat reconstruction. Each year I am able to use just a little less imagination for such a term to truly fit.

Sand savanna reconstruction
 

As the habitat has become diversified, so has the bird life. Where once the buzz cut land appealed to few species, today it provides a more complex structure so that more bird species may find what they need. The robins still prefer the mowed lawn around the house for foraging, but the ten-year-old shrubby hackberry and red cedar trees now provide a proper structure for nesting. The taller prairie grasses and low shrubs appeal to nesting field sparrows and song sparrows. In years following a fire, foraging lark sparrows use the bare sand between bunches of re-emerging little bluestem grass and sand love grass. And, of course, one of the cedars growing from seed that I had haphazardly thrown in the air a decade before is now about 10 feet tall – suitable enough for one brown thrasher’s nest. Gray catbirds, northern mockingbirds, indigo buntings, bobwhite quail, and eastern towhees all find the shrubby landscape more appealing than its crew-cut past. There are more birds around over the winter too; my record keeping shows that the number of species observed each year is on an upward trend. In addition to the birds, I have been astounded by the different types of bees and butterflies drawn to the prairie wildflowers, with different species blooming at different periods throughout the growing season, following a natural cycle. 

American hazelnut

The lesson is clear and needs little elaboration on my part. Still I know that at first glance, many would continue to think I have simply let the property go. The former owners once asked if they could dig up and remove some of the flower bulbs they had left behind, concluding that I "didn’t care for flowers." One neighbor from way down the road once belligerently asked, "Hey! When are you going to cut your grass?" "It’s not in the management plan," I dryly answered. I had no idea where to even begin to offer a real explanation. My newly wed wife four years ago initially smiled politely; she, though, needed no explanation. Since then, with an artist’s and Master Gardener’s touch, she has taught me how to maintain a neater, more orderly appearance immediately around our house and small yard, while at the same time not diminishing the wildlife values. She maintains, however, that it is a work in progress; but such is life, after all. And the sand prairie and savanna, shrub thickets, and woods along the property boundaries continue to reflect a certain natural randomness that I find attractive and am drawn to. It’s good enough for brown thrashers and a good balance.

Birding from an Illinois River Logjam

As luck would have it, the day of my voluntary furlough day from work (i.e., day off, no pay) was predicted to be sunny and warm, with light breezes and low humidity. A perfect summer day for a canoe-birding trip to the Illinois River. And so, by 7:30 a.m. I was launching my canoe into the south pool of Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge. In the aftermath of a rainy spring, the Illinois River was about eight feet above flood stage, high enough to be completely over the refuge’s south levee system, giving free access to the Illinois River, about one and a half miles to the northwest.

Once on the water, my view of the refuge opened up to the broad Lake Chautauqua and the four-mile-wide Illinois River valley. Briefly I glanced at seven American white pelicans scattered about, a few double-crested cormorants, several ring-billed gulls, and a belted kingfisher; but otherwise, I concentrated on paddling to the river, where I planned to eat breakfast, read, and relax.

Chautauqua Refuge's south pool.

In a very short time, I sailed right over the refuge’s levee, crossed the Liverpool Island side channel, and entered the flooded forests of Liverpool Island. Floating high above the ground surface, there were few obstructions, and it was easy to paddle through the forest around the mature cottonwood and silver maple trees. A variety of bird songs and calls echoed from the tree canopy high overhead; prothonotary warblers, warbling vireos, and house wrens led the chorus in volume and repetition more than other species. But such diversions notwithstanding, I still headed straight for the river on the opposite side of the island, to find a place along the river’s edge where I planned to remain for the better part of the morning.

The problem was that even within the forest, the water was flowing, although at a lesser velocity than in the main river, and I did not have an anchor. Yet with a bit of maneuvering, I was able to wedge the canoe within a logjam of several large silver maple logs and branches on the island’s edge, which prevented the canoe from drifting downstream. Then once ensconced within the logjam, water flowed and eddied all around and under me, but the canoe was held in place against the trees by the flowing water. Finally I relaxed and could pay more attention to my surroundings, watch and literally feel the river’s flow, and enjoy the abundant bird life.

After an hour or so, I counted 26 bird species within the flooded island forest (see accompanying table); if it had been earlier in the breeding season, there would have been more. Occasional barn, tree, and northern rough-winged swallows flew over the river, briefly crossing my field of view. All was calm for a long time. But when a large v-bottomed cruiser passed, it set up a commotion of large swells that went crashing through the forest; still my logjam held fast, and I simply rode out the waves. Later a towboat-barge, with a busy crew on deck and a sign reading "Dangerous Cargo," passed, sending out another series of waves, though these were much smaller than the cruiser-generated waves. And no one, except the birds, knew of the canoe hidden within the deep shade of silver maples, wedged inside of a half-sunken pile of snags.

Eventually the sounds of leaves rustling in the upper tree canopies signaled that the wind, in the warm morning sun, was picking up speed. I took that as a sign to leave, and I expected to fight the wind on the open expanse of Lake Chautauqua as I returned to the refuge boat ramp. But before extracting the canoe from the logjam, I thought how unusual it was and how fortunate I was to have a day with such favorable conditions all converging at once, and how such a day cannot be planned for and may not occur again for quite some time. Circumstances have a way of changing. So on the return trip, I paddled slower than on the way out, savoring every moment, wind and all.

Prairie or Forest: Life in the Tension Zone

On a one-acre portion of our home property in the sand hills of rural Mason County, Illinois, I have set up conditions for a competition of sorts. It is not a commercial or sporting event, but rather, may be viewed as a natural interplay between one particular assemblage of plants (prairie) and another (forest). Three years ago, in fact, I had cleared the area of most trees, following seven years of "letting nature take its course," leaving only a few oaks, hickories, and red cedars; then burned off the area and scattered thousands of seeds from a variety of native prairie wildflowers (forbs) and grasses. I have also planted bur oaks, black oaks, and hazelnut shurbs. So the area now has components of both native forest and prairie.

Sand Hill Savanna in 2009

If I did nothing at all but watch the plants grow, given the present Illinois climate, without a doubt, forest would win out against prairie; because for the longest time, perhaps thousands of years, temperature and precipitation cycles in Illinois have strongly tipped the environmental "balance," for want of a better term, in favor of forest, even on rather dry, nutrient-poor, sandy soils. To push the balance on my land in the direction toward prairie, I have used fire as a tool. And once prairie grasses became established, fires have burned more intensely, further pushing the community toward prairie. The controlled fires burn off all of the prairie plants above ground, and tree saplings that are always encroaching are top killed. Although during the following growing season, all will re-sprout, I am confident that repeated fires over many years will greatly discourage the trees, which have to expend large percentages of their stored energy reserves from the previous year to completely regrow from their undamaged root systems. The more fire-tolerant oaks and hickories, especially the larger, more established individuals, usually survive the fires little worse off for the experience.

Goat's Rue

This mixture of prairie and forest plants is thus a tension zone, sometimes called a "savanna," that is capable of wavering back and forth, albeit over a period of years, toward either of the two main plant community types. An increase in fire and drought should result in the prairie assemblage thriving at the expense of tree cover; more reliable precipitation and cooler conditions with less fire may give trees an edge and allow them to encroach more successfully upon the prairie. In the old Illinois landscape, before the Europeans, this was the natural dynamic equilibrium, and this is what I am trying to re-create on my little plot of ground.

On a much larger scale, topography and soils also played important roles. In areas with mature stream systems and rougher topography, fires moved less easily across the land. The result was that, in general, flat table lands and the gently rolling, glaciated lands of central Illinois supported prairie, while river valleys and complex ravine and bluff systems supported forest. Savanna then existed between true forest and prairie in a complex shifting mosaic shaped by climatic conditions, which, over the long term, also change. In 1820 about 55 percent of Illinois was prairie, while 42 percent was wooded, although it is unclear exactly how much of this was savanna and how much was true forest.

Blazing Star

If it was just a matter of planting the appropriate species and setting fires frequently, restoring an Illinois savanna might be rather straightforward. But today, we must contend with the presence of a variety of plants not native to Illinois or even the Western Hemisphere, for that matter. On my land, the most competitive non-native trees are white mulberry, black locust, and Siberian elm, which surround the partially reconstructed savanna. Native black walnut, sassafras, and hackberry trees, though, can be just as invasive. Then with any relaxation in the controlled fire regime on my part, these trees will immediately begin taking over. In fact, even with frequent fire, it has continually become necessary for me to cut seedlings and saplings by hand and apply a strong herbicide to the cut stumps to prevent vigorous re-sprouting. So even with all of the cutting, herbicide, and fire, the prairie-savanna is only just about able to hold its own.

White Wild Indigo

So one may ask some legitimate questions: With all of this manipulation, is what I have created natural or are my efforts just a different kind of backyard gardening and not really anything natural at all? Am I kidding myself by naming what I have planted and fight to maintain a savanna? I put the plants there, true; but I did not, of course, create the plants. Each one survives as an individual just as individuals of each species always have done, surviving or dying according to chance circumstances; but each also exists as a member of a plant community, where survival is moderated by some of the same types of interactions with other individuals and external influences as there always have been. Native Americans purposely set fires to manipulate the landscape, and no one called that unnatural; instead, many like to say that they lived in harmony with nature. Cannot I engage in a similar activity with the addition of a few newer tools? What really is natural or unnatural after all? How much of these labels are really only in our own minds as we try to categorize and understand our world? While viewing the many insects, birds, and mammals drawn to my attempts at savanna restoration, where once there was a mowed lawn with little to offer, I believe that I have some answers.

On Becoming Our Surroundings

At the Peace of Earth Lodge, in Schuyler County, Illinois, my wife and I stood at a forested ravine’s edge, the below-freezing northwest winds at our backs. As our trail continued down a slippery, snow-covered slope to the deep ravine bottom, we briefly paused to consider how sensible it would be to attempt such a trail, and what we would do if one of us should fall and become injured. The winter scene offered much for our minds to process, and I unsuccessfully tried to take everything in at a glance. Then as we slowly moved forward, my attention was, by necessity, focused on the icy, leaf-covered trail and my handy walking stick, which provided stability and needed confidence.

Though preoccupied with the trail, it was not difficult to notice that because of the many bird feeders at the nearby lodge, forest birds were quite drawn to this stretch of ravine. Black-capped chickadees, tufted titmice, and white-breasted nuthatches were seemingly in constant motion traveling back and forth from the feeders to trees in the surrounding forest. Both downy and hairy woodpeckers were common, with an occasional red-bellied woodpecker. The feeders also attracted gray squirrels from their preferred deep-forest habitats. As we descended, I listened carefully for pileated woodpeckers, quite sure they were somewhere in the forest ahead.

After safely reaching the ravine bottom, feeling deep within the earth itself, we became enveloped within a quiet calmness, and my mind began to drift. The outside world and its many problems seemed far away in distance as well as time. I imagined the tablelands beyond the boundaries of our ravine covered in tallgrass prairies and savanna rather than harvested farm fields. It was not hard to see, in my mind’s eye, this part of Illinois as a mosaic of such natural communities, with forests occupying areas of rougher topography, such as the ravine where we stood, with prairies on the flat uplands. Steep rock outcrops along the ravine bottom provided remnants of a much more ancient landscape.

Photograph by Pat and Tim Sullivan

Soon the trail led to a stream crossing, and our walking sticks once again were very useful in helping us to skip from rock to rock and across areas where a slower current had allowed ice to form. Here at the ravine bottom, overwintering territories of several red-headed woodpeckers could be accurately located on either side of the ravine. With oak mast quite abundant this year, the ravine forest was able to support more red-heads, which feed on the mast, than in years with poor mast production. I knew that each red-head stored acorns in a cache within a tree hole, and protected its cache and a small surrounding area from other birds, especially marauding blue jays. There was quite a drama of survival in this ravine forest, and I wondered what other stories there were that I was missing completely. Each animal footprint in the snow had its own story: where each was heading and for what purpose; how its small life might end abruptly, red in tooth and claw; one moment alive and alert, the next resigned to its fate. As always at such times, I feel somewhat overwhelmed with so much to comprehend and so many questions left unanswered; and I try to think of a way to encompass in some way all that surrounds me, so that I might, in effect, carry it with me, and make it my own.

And then we saw the hammock at the stream edge across from a massive rock outcropping. How it contrasted with the natural surroundings, and yet how appropriate it seemed, especially at that moment. "Let’s lie on it," I said. And so, we carefully but awkwardly placed ourselves on the hammock, and then remained silent. I looked upward into the forest canopy swaying in the wintry prairie winds, and saw wisps of clouds moving high overhead. But in the hammock, the bright sun warmed my face in the cold, still air; and I heard every sound from up and down the ravine, as if the gurgle of flowing water, the rustle of each leaf, and the call of each bird were amplified in volume and clarity. Then I shut my eyes and forgot about myself for a time; when I finally opened them, I became confronted by the reality of my surroundings, feeling no longer as the outsider looking in. Such moments, delicate as gossamer, are rare and fleeting, and it is usually not long before the inevitable intrusion. So I made a special effort to be attentive for as long as possible, before again becoming the outsider and separating myself from my surroundings, which I knew was a requirement before we could leave on our hike back to the lodge. And we left when we were ready, but not one moment before.

 

 
Peace of Earth website: www.PeaceofEarth.net

A Few Good Notes

We live in a busy world. And as the choices for sending and receiving communications increase (from cell phones to Internet web logs to e-mail), time available dwindles by the day, and life seems busier than ever. So a rather quaint activity such as writing a journal in a mere notebook may seem antiquated and not quite worth the trouble. One may even feel there is little worth recording on a day-to-day basis.

As a child, even Mark Twain became discouraged when attempting to keep a daily journal. Each day he would faithfully write, "Got up, washed, went to bed." After a few weeks, though, the writing ended, with Twain remarking that "Startling events appeared to be too rare in my career to render a diary necessary." But surely he must have had some unrecorded reactions to events happening in the world around him, in between washing and going to bed. He should have looked beyond himself, and years later, might have been surprised to find interest in reading those impressions. Following this article, perhaps the reader may find that the world around us offers an endless variety of events worth recording or providing commentary upon. Nature, in fact, is a good place to start.

Over the years, I have noticed that keeping records comes naturally and spontaneously to birders. Even beginning birders can be seen keeping a list of birds seen on a field trip, usually without any prodding from the trip leader. Though recording an occasional bird list may not qualify as keeping a journal, it is a start in the process of carefully witnessing one’s surroundings. And who knows where this may lead.

A bird list means little, though, if it is done haphazardly and then filed in a drawer to never be seen again. Lists should be made with the intention of eventually reviewing them to look for patterns and inconsistencies or submitting the list to the proper ornithological organization. By reviewing lists collected over a long period of time, one may be able to observe trends such as increases in populations of some species and declines in others. Or one might note that certain species are arriving from their winter or summer grounds earlier or later than usual.

For many migratory species, it is remarkable how close from year to year they follow certain behavioral patterns. For example, from reviewing my notes, I know that barn swallows tend to arrive from South America at their nest under my porch roof in central Illinois about April 15, more or less. When the birds are much later, I begin wondering whether they may have been killed in a hurricane or met some other disaster on their very dangerous route to a dangerous place. Another example is the day on which I first hear a house wren singing, which for the last three years was April 12, April 15, and April 11. These are benchmarks in time on nature’s calender. And I have noticed many other benchmarks in relation to birds, such as the first days in July when I begin seeing southward-moving shorebirds; the loose September flocks of nighthawks foraging in the skies, but seriously bound for the Amazon basin and beyond; the first late fall day when the waters of the local marsh freeze over and all the waterfowl leave; the first red-winged blackbird song in February. Journal writing and taking notice of specific events have brought me closer to nature and have enriched my life.

Today’s easy-to-use home computers and the Internet have brought record keeping to a new level. At the Cornell Laboratory of Ornithology’s eBird web site (www.ebird.org), data from your birding lists may be entered into a giant database that is used by birders and scientists across North America to track bird populations over space and time. The easy flexibility of their system allows even a casual observation to be entered. There is even room for special notes related to the bird observations.

Taking careful notes on bird behavior is where a simple bird list becomes a birding journal. As a beginning birder soon discovers, certain species tend to be associated with specific habitats. So the bird observation and what specifically exists at the siting location are highly correlated. Habitat factors include the type and structure of the vegetation, topographical relief, presence or absence of water, amount of standing dead timber, available food resources, and acreage. By keeping notes on these factors and relating that to where specific birds were observed, one can learn to read the landscape and know what birds to expect.

A birding journal should also record weather conditions at the time of observation as well as notes on bird behavior as they interact with each other, other organisms, and the environment. Yet with such information, the birding journal may be more accurately called a nature journal. Topics may then appropriately include information such as the flowering date of specific plants or the date when a local river crests in its spring flood. And once one becomes accustomed to journal writing about nature, it is only too easy to include comments on whatever events happen to be worth noticing, perhaps even arcane philosophical ruminations on the human condition.

Journal writing will enhance the enjoyment of any trip, long or short. It can provide a record of events unique to the writer. When shared with another person, who is also recording the same day’s events, journal writing can provide a special, simple, and personal kind of entertainment and insight into the trip. For example, on a trip to the upper Mississippi River, each evening my wife Julie and I described the day’s events in our journals. The next morning over breakfast, we each read our journal entries aloud. Part of one afternoon in Wisconsin was recorded in this way:

From T. V. Lerczak’s journal:

"At Rush River Delta, we followed the shallow, clear Rush River along a wisp of a trail nearly to the far reaches of the delta. The trail passed from old-growth floodplain forest (mainly silver maples and a few cottonwoods) to sand bar willow communities. Following the delta from older to younger areas was like running plant succession in reverse. Birds were scarce, but we counted 12 bald eagles along the Rush River and the lake’s edge."

From Julie’s journal:

"In the afternoon, we . . . stopped to explore a wonderful bottomland forest on a delta at the base of Lake Pepin. This was the Rush River Natural Area, I believe. It was so deserted and pristine, and the Rush River–what I would describe as a creek–was crystal-clear. As we hiked and later sat for a while to read and meditate, we stirred up eagle after eagle. This apparently is a hot spot for them, and Tom thinks they like the Rush River for its seclusion and clear waters. . . . All together we saw 12 eagles and I would say two-thirds were mature. They flew quite near, and I’ve never been closer to one in the wild." 

On this two-week trip, we never watched television once, which I think says quite a lot in favor of journal writing.

Mississippi River near Quincy, Illinois

Making the transition from simple bird listing to keeping a nature or trip journal is significant. Yet even if one is seriously keeping a journal, making daily entries may probably require establishing a forced routine; that is, purposely setting aside a block of time to write. Most folks aspiring to write, indeed, say that writing every day is important. But what if truly nothing has happened worth recording? Once you are beginning to write "got up, washed, went to bed," is it time to admit defeat? Here the journal writer must mine his or her thoughts for perhaps one inspired conclusion or one past observation worth committing to paper. Even Edwin Way Teale must have had his uneventful days once in a while, for his entire June 11 journal entry in Circle of the Seasons: The Journal of a Naturalist’s Year reads as follows: "Out-of-doors, adventures are everywhere. Wonders are all around us. If the world is stale, its fascination gone, the fault, we find, is in ourselves. As G.K. Chesterton put it: ‘The world will never starve for want of wonders, but only for want of wonder.’"

NOTE:  This essay originally appeared in the Summer 2006 issue of Illinois Audubon magazine. 

 

Antics at a Hummingbird Feeder

Though it is still early March, the spring bird migration is well underway. And so it is time to begin thinking about warmer weather and birds from the tropics traveling to Illinois to breed. The ruby-throated hummingbird is one of many such species. Although our yard will have plenty of flowers for hummingbirds to feed upon after they return from the south, this year I plan to set up a hummingbird feeder. The feeder is filled with clear sugar water (1/4 cup of sugar to 1 cup of water), and it is colored red to attract hummingbirds. The hummingbirds can drink the sugar water through holes in the center of flower-like shapes molded into the feeder’s plastic surface. Several years ago, using wires, I hung a feeder from a hickory tree branch in front of my window. It took the birds a few days to find the feeder, but they soon made frequent stops. Ants also discovered the feeder.

One day I wasn’t seeing hummingbirds, so I watched the ants. Ants frantically ran up and down the tree branch to and from the feeder. Individuals that traveled away from the feeder, up the wire attachment, and up the tree branch, each had swollen abdomens that were transparent and filled with sugar water. Those individuals traveling to the feeder from the tree had normal-sized bodies. Apparently, sugar water was being transported all the way to a colony below ground level. What a Herculean cooperative effort these ants were engaged in, like trying to drain a large swimming pool with a thimble.

Mark Twain also watched ants. In his book A Tramp Abroad, published in 1880, he wrote that: "...the average ant is a sham. I admit his industry, of course; he is the hardest-working creature in the world—when anybody is looking—but his leatherheadedness is the point I make against him. He goes out foraging, he makes a capture, and then what does he do? Go home? No—he goes anywhere but home. He doesn’t know where home is. His home may be only three feet away—no matter, he can’t find it. He makes his capture, as I have said; it is generally something which can be of no sort of use to himself or anybody else; it is usually seven times bigger than it ought to be; he hunts out the awkwardest place to take a hold of it; he lifts it bodily up in the air by main force, and starts; not toward home, but in the opposite direction; not calmly and wisely, but with a frantic haste which is wasteful of his strength; he fetches up against a pebble, and instead of going around it, he climbs over it backward dragging his booty after him, tumbles down the other side, jumps up in a passion, kicks the dust off his clothes, moistens his hands, grabs his property viciously, yanks it this way, then that, shoves it ahead of him a moment, turns tail and tugs it after him another moment, gets madder and madder, then presently hoists it into the air and goes tearing away in an entirely new direction; comes to a weed; it never occurs to him to go around it; no, he must climb it; and he does climb it, dragging his worthless property to the top—which is as bright a thing to do as it would be for me to carry a sack of flour from Heidelberg to Paris by way of Strasburg steeple; when he gets up there he finds that that is not the place; takes a cursory glance at the scenery and either climbs down again or tumbles down, and starts off once more—as usual, in a new direction."

Twain’s careful scientific observations notwithstanding, my ants seemed to know their business. When I removed the feeder to change the water, the ant column continued, but the returning ants went away empty of sugar water. Four hours later, there were somewhat fewer ants traveling the branch trail to the wire loop that previously held the feeder. After a few more hours, there were still many ants traveling the wire-branch trail in search of sugar water, but their numbers seemed to be noticeably decreasing. Apparently, "word" was slowly getting around (most likely a chemical signal) that the rich sugar water was gone. Twenty-four hours later, only a few confused ants still searched for the illusive sugar water. I then filled and hung the feeder, expecting that very soon, the ants would be back, and with hummingbirds also. And so they were.

 

[Note: This story was originally published in slightly different form in the Summer 2000 issue of Illinois Audubon magazine.]

Marshes Again Among the Sand Hills of Central Illinois

            Our home was built probably 80 to 90 years ago on the top of a small sand hill that rises perhaps 5 to 10 feet above the surrounding fields, woods, and farms of Mason County, Illinois.  The original owners undoubtedly picked this high-ground location for their farmstead to avoid flooding.  Yet in most normal years, one would hardly ever think of flood waters; the nearest stream, the Illinois River, is about four miles away, and even its highest floods would never be able to reach the height of the river valley’s bluff tops and then spread over the uplands.  No, the floods they were concerned with came not from the river, but from the seemingly dry ground below.

            When I first moved to Mason County in 1991, I could not help but notice that the land’s outstanding characteristic was its dryness.  Its natural areas reminded me of a desert-like landscape with prickly pear cactus common in sand prairies dominated by bunch grasses such as sand love grass and little bluestem; in savannas and woodlands, blackjack oak, a gnarly tree species that seems the quintessential dryland species every bit as much as mesquite in an Arizona canyonland, is common.  On a hot summer day on the prairies, there is not a drop of water to be found, and survival for plants and animals must be a greater struggle than usual.

Sand Prairie-Scrub Oak Nature Preserve, Mason Co. 

            But in 1993 my perspective on the sand areas of Mason County was turned upside down.  For it was the year of the great flood on the Mississippi River and many of its tributaries.  Though many blamed human modifications of the river and its watershed for the flood, an idea deserving of some serious investigations, the fact is that it rained a lot over the Midwest in 1993.  It rained so much that the land was saturated with water; aquifers rose in consequence, and even some lands far above the river’s highest possible flood level saw flooding; certain lands could hold no more water.  Western Mason County was one of those areas.  While the sand hills remained dry, in some cases surrounding lower lying areas turned into shallow lakes and marshes; the water to fill these depressions came from either more precipitation or from a rising aquifer surfacing from water pressures beneath.  Eventually the wetlands grew characteristic vegetation such as cattails, rushes, arrowhead, and smartweed, among other species; and their fishless waters, not being fed by any inlet streams, were havens for a variety of frogs and toads that appeared in astronomical numbers seemingly from nowhere.  Many varieties of wetland birds were also attracted to these sandy-bottomed aquatic habitats.

County Road 1500N, south of Havana, Il, 1993  

            Sand, though, holds water very poorly.  And after precipitation returned to normal and the aquifer lowered, the sand marshes soon disappeared.  By the late 1990s, corn, soybeans, or winter wheat were once again being harvested from the dry, flat, low-lying grounds that I knew would one day again become marshes and open water.

            When it was time to purchase my first home in 1999, I remembered which areas had flooded from the rising aquifer six years earlier.  And so I knew the old farmhouse on the sand hill was safe.  And I remembered how the surrounding lands were covered in water in 1993 and county roads that were closed from water that had nowhere to go.  So in the early spring of 2011, I am able to sit high and dry, even though the last two or three years have seen exceptional precipitation, and the aquifer has been full to overflowing for over a year; the farm fields to the north and south of my home have been wet or under permanent water for about as long.  Amphibian choruses are loud and nearly constant; there must be many thousands of frogs and toads in just the flooded acreage north of my home.  I have even heard the rare Illinois chorus frog.  Wood duck pairs fly here and there looking for appropriate nest trees.

            This is all good, but the water also means loss of planting opportunities for affected farmers.  And although many flood-damaged homes were removed after 1993, some folks stayed, possibly looking upon 1993 as an anomaly.  I know of at least one very unfortunate family about an eight of a mile down the road who are now in a desperate, daily battle against the aquifer’s high waters to save their home.  And I am sure that they look upon the wetlands to the north and south of our sand hill very differently than I do.

County Road 1500N, south of Havana, Il, Jan. 2010. 

            But the spring of 2011 has only just begun.  With the usual spring rains yet to come, it would seem to be a given that Mason County’s sand marshes and small lakes may be a regular feature on the landscape for some time to come; that is, until the inevitable dry periods return, and the cycle begins anew.

In the Company of Bald Eagles…and a Papillon named Charlie

So far the winter of 2011-12 was unusually mild.  On January 5^th, in fact, the weather forecast called for light winds, sun, and a high of 55 degrees.  This would be, I reasoned, much too nice of a mid-winter day to remain indoors.  Harsh weather had yet to materialize this winter in central Illinois, and I knew the weather would eventually change for the worse.  So I gathered a few books and Charlie and headed for the cabin, located on the bluffs overlooking Quiver Lake, an Illinois River backwater just south of Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge.

It took only a few minutes to reach the cabin from home, and without any delay both Charlie and I were comfortably seated against a large cottonwood tree on the sandy beach, listening to the crying gulls over the lake, and trying to stay warm in the light breeze.  But Charlie kept wandering toward two large Labrador retrievers further down the beach, so I tied his leash to a stake near the cottonwood.

After a few minutes, an immature bald eagle landed on the topmost branch of my cottonwood, about 75 feet directly above.  I stayed perfectly still, except for slowly moving my binoculars to my eyes.  The eagle constantly shifted its gaze in different directions toward the lake, but often looked directly at Charlie and me; its talons had a death grip on the tree branch, reminding me of needle-sharp meat hooks.  I could clearly see its eyes locked onto mine, and I wondered if the eagle thought Charlie, who is about the size of a cat, would make a nice meal.  I read that it is rare for a bald eagle to hunt for small domestic dogs or cats, but not totally unheard of.  Charlie whined about being tied to a stake.  It’s for your own good, I thought, not expecting him to understand.  Charlie fidgeted, but the eagle was not concerned about us.  Then after about ten minutes, after I had become engrossed in reading again, I heard the gentle beating of large wings, and the eagle was gone.

Over the river bottoms and along the bluffs, there were eagles in every direction; whenever I looked up from my reading, I would see one or two soaring, flying past, or foraging for fish over the open lake waters.  Out in the Illinois River, about a mile to the west, past Quiver Lake and the forests at Quiver Lake bottoms, I could hear a towboat-barge traveling upstream.  There was a slight smell of dead fish coming from the lakeshore, a smell that reminded me of Lake Michigan in the 1960s, when alewives died in great numbers and washed up on Chicago’s beaches.  At Quiver Lake there were dead gizzard shad, smallmouth buffalo, freshwater drum, and Asian carp.  The dead fish and open waters were clearly reasons for the numerous scavenging gulls and eagles.   And then I heard a strange call overhead, and saw another immature bald eagle perching on the top of a cottonwood tree about 50 feet away. This eagle focused on the open lake, and rarely looked in my direction.  It left after only a few minutes.

Quiver Lake beach

Then suddenly a large eagle’s shadow quickly moved across the ground, passing over us in an instant.  If I were Charlie’s size, I would have learned to freeze in place when a shadow passes overhead, especially because the eagles cruise the bluff line all day long, all winter, riding the updraft winds, looking for easy prey.  The lakeside forests also harbor great horned and barred owls.  But the domesticated Charlie was oblivious, as he focused on a pair of fox squirrels chasing each other up and down several nearby trees.  I kept Charlie close by, while he whined about being kept from running after the squirrels.

By mid-afternoon, the winds were picking up speed, higher than expected, and I thought of two terms that I remembered hearing more often when I lived in Chicago:  wind chill factor and hypothermia.  And I realized that maybe I was underdressed, and it was time to leave.  As Charlie and I left the lake breezes behind, I listened one more time for a few moments, as eagle calls echoed from the river bottoms.  It was good to spend a winter day outside in the company of eagles, and Charlie too.

Charlie safe at home

Hiking and Birding the Spoon River Bottoms

Birding the Spoon River bottomlands is not something that can be counted upon without fail.  At one extreme, the river is quite likely to be at some level of flood, sometimes with no dry land in sight; or at the other extreme, it may be so low that the backwaters have dried out completely, leaving little habitat for waterbirds.  But so far this winter, river levels and backwaters were at their perfect levels:  water enough for migrating waterfowl with ample dry land for hiking.  And so, hike I did, following a long favorite route through the oxbow area at the Emiquon National Wildlife Refuge, where the Spoon River flows into the Illinois River.

 

Walking was easy over the extremely flat ground.  And at no time at all, I reached my first stop of the morning:  on a natural levee bordering one of the oxbow lakes, formed long ago when the oxbow was actually part of the Spoon River itself.  Several years ago, in this very spot, I sat for a long time watching great blue herons feeding on Asian carp, an experience detailed in Chapter 3 of my book Side Channels (http://www.side-channels.com/).  On this day, I saw only one heron, but the lake was filled with waterfowl, and the trees with hundreds of noisy red-winged blackbirds and grackles.  I used an old punky log as a seat cushion and a silver maple tree as a backrest, and I was comfortable and warm for the time being, surrounded by wildlife, forests, and wetlands.  Then from the direction of Havana, a trail whistle blew, reminding me that I was only a few miles, not thousands of miles, from home.  Green-winged teal called from all directions around the lake.  They flew around the refuge in small close-knit flocks, along with hundreds of mallards, and lesser numbers of northern pintails, ring-necked ducks, and northern shovelers.  Far on the other side of the lake, three buffleheads bobbed heads and flapped wings in the throes of courtship.

 

But after only a short time, the winds began increasing, and I realized that it was probably around mid-morning.  The bright sun shined through cloudless skies, but it provided little warmth on this early March day.  And my rotten log sofa was not as dry as it looked; through my pants I could feel the cold dampness.  It was time to generate some heat.  And so I walked on.

 

My path over the soft alluvial ground eventually led to the Spoon River, which I followed to its end.  Here I found a tree leaning at just the right angle, where I planted myself for a late breakfast sandwich and reading.  But this time, I used my backpack as protection against the cold, damp soil of the forest floor, and I stayed warm and comfortable.  There were whitecaps on the river and the strong winds tossed around one of the first turkey vultures of the year like an autumn leaf.

 

Though I could have stayed in that place all day, my original plans were to hike along the Illinois River to the Thompson Lake levee, which forms the northern boundary of the refuge, for a view of the Thompson-Flag Lakes bottomlands beyond the refuge boundaries.  But it was late morning, and little Charlie the dog had been in his “pen” for over four hours; he would need to be let out soon, or I would face the consequences.  So I gathered up my backpack and slowly meandered back to the parking lot, fine with my decision.  Thompson-Flag Lakes would be there for another day.

 

Bird List, Emiquon National Wildlife Refuge, March 10, 2012

 

Canada Goose                         Blue Jay

Wood Duck                              Black-capped Chickadee

Mallard                                   White-breasted Nuthatch

Northern Shoveler                   Brown Creeper

Northern Pintail                      Carolina Wren

Green-winged Teal                  American Robin

Ring-necked Duck                    American Tree Sparrow

Bufflehead                              Song Sparrow

Great Blue Heron                    Dark-eyed Junco

Turkey Vulture                        Northern Cardinal

American Coot                        Red-winged Blackbird

Ring-billed Gull                       Common Grackle

Mourning Dove                        American Goldfinch

Downy Woodpecker

Hairy Woodpecker

Red-bellied Woodpecker

 

Map of Emiquon National Wildlife Refuge, Fulton County, Illinois

(Click to enlarge)