The River Landing

Swallows in an Ice Age Legacy

Traveling through a remote part of Cass County in June 2012, I was looking for an access road or pathway to an even more remote natural area, when I noticed a large expanse of bare earth seemingly carved out of the bluff side.  I knew by its yellowish-brown color and the near vertical steepness of the cut that this was pure loess.

Loess is a windblown soil that was originally deposited in ancient river valleys during the last Ice Age, over 12,000 years ago; during dry periods, extremely high winds blew the fine dust-like sediments onto the surrounding uplands.  The loess accumulated over long periods of time, perhaps only a few feet per 1,000 years.  Even so, in parts of Illinois, loess deposits can be greater than 100 feet thick.

What I saw in Cass County was an exposure from such a deposit.  Even more interesting, though, were the bank swallows that had burrowed nesting holes into the vertical loess exposure.  Loess has special properties that allow it to maintain its shape and stability, even on a vertical cut, which looks like a sheer rock cliff.  I remembered this cut and the same bank swallow colony from over 20 years ago; so multiple generations of swallows have fledged from this artificial feature in the landscape.  And even though I have not been to the site this year, I know they are there again.

Bank swallow colony in loess exposure, Cass Co., Il

I wrote about a bank swallow colony in my book Side Channels in a chapter called “Wings Over the River”:

“Even though large [bank swallow] colonies have many disadvantages to birds, and they can actually attract the attention of predators, colonies are highly effective at predator detection – and defense in some cases (mobbing the predator).  While walking along Salt Creek in Logan County one spring, I noticed a bank swallow colony just below the steep drop off of the creek bank.  When I was directly above the burrows, the swallows formed themselves into a great whirling cloud that circled directly overhead, with each bird vociferously calling…A large bank swallow colony is a chaotic affair much like a schoolyard full of highly energetic children during recess on the first warm, sunny spring day.” 

It was quite an interesting experience.

The colony in Cass County, south of Bluff Springs, is on private land, but it is easy to see from the roadside, about a half-mile north of the intersection of county roads 400N and 1300E.   Binoculars would be a good idea.

[NOTE:  An earlier version of this essay appeared in the Pekin Daily Times online in 2012.] 

Early Morning on the 2013 Breeding Bird Survey

This morning (June 19) my alarm clock sounded at 4 a.m., just as it did for the last 20 years on the single mid-June day that I chose to conduct my Breeding Bird Survey (BBS) route in Fulton County.  Light in the east was barely beginning to show when I left the house at 4:20, planning to be in place at the beginning of my route well before the official start time.

Then, at exactly 5 a.m., I began counting birds at the first of 50 stops, each one half-mile apart.  For three minutes at each stop I recorded on a sheet of paper all adult birds seen or heard within a quarter mile. 

Between stops, I drove like a maniac as fast as I could to the next stop.  There is no time to waste on this survey, because all of the stops must be completed by 10 o’clock.  That leaves very little time for even small delays.

On the passenger seat next to me was a map and a list of site descriptions.  Because this was the 21st time that I have been on this route, I was fairly familiar with the landmarks and the stop locations, but I still needed to pay close attention to where I was heading, as any confusion would cause needless delays.  In the early years, conducting the survey was a much more frantic experience when the clock kept ticking as I wasted precious minutes trying to determine whether or not I was actually at the correct stops.   

The Breeding Bird Survey is coordinated by the U.S. Geological Survey’s Patuxent Wildlife Research Center.  There are 3,533 BBS routes in the United States in all states except Hawaii.  Canada has 996 routes.  Not all of the routes are sampled, though, probably because there are insufficient numbers of qualified individuals to do the counts or not enough people who have the time.  Last year in Illinois, for example, only 85 of 101 routes were sampled.

After completing my route today at 9:16 a.m., the first thing that I did, as in every year, was head for the nearest convenient store in Table Grove for a cup of coffee.   My work was not over, though, because sometime in the next several weeks I would have to enter the count data into the BBS database via the Internet.

Surprisingly, entering the data is a very satisfying part of doing the BBS route because I know that my data will be used by ornithologists around the country to analyze trends in bird populations.  And natural resource managers will look at the trends as they weigh various factors in making critical management decisions.  For now, though, the field work is finished until next year.

(Incidentally, the total bird species count for this route from 1993 to 2013 is 85, with an average of 53 species per year.  The number of individual birds counted ranged from a low of 543 in 2013 to a high of 945 in 1994.  The BBS web site has all of the data for the entire survey available for viewing and analysis.)

 

[NOTE:  An earlier version of this essay appeared in 2012 at the Pekin Daily Times online.] 

Look Closely at the Mulberry Tree

The mulberry tree is one of the more common trees on our landscape.  It can be found in rural areas along shelterbelts and forests, as well as in urban environments.  It thrives in dry areas as well as moist bottomlands.

The latter part of spring and early summer are the best times to look closely at mulberry trees because this is when the berries are available.  And the berries attract birds.

Cedar waxwings are one of the many species that eat mulberry fruits.  But waxwings are rather shy, and I would guess that most people who have never noticed birds in general have never seen or even heard of waxwings.  That is a shame, because cedar waxwings are strikingly beautiful; their plumage looks almost as if it were carefully painted by a skilled artisan who knew the power of subtlety.

They tend to travel in small groups, and when the mulberry trees bear their fruit, the waxwings are so preoccupied with feeding they hardly seem to notice a nearby observer.  Seeing a cedar waxwing up close is a real treat, even for seasoned birders.

Another reason for taking a careful look at mulberries is that there are actually two closely related, similar species in Illinois:  red mulberry and white mulberry.  The white is the overwhelmingly more common, hardy, adaptable, and aggressive of the two.  And so, it may be found nearly everywhere, but especially in shrubby areas, young forests, and disturbed areas, out-competing nearly every neighboring plant for space, light, water, and nutrients.

Such characteristics are typical of alien species.  And, in fact, white mulberry is native to Asia, but not North America.  It belongs to that group of species referred to as non-native and invasive. Botanists, ecologists, and master gardeners intensely dislike the tree. 

White mulberry, though, is a favorite of birds.  And in their droppings, they help spread it across the land.  Of course, they also like the red mulberry…when they can find one.

[NOTE:  This essay originally appeared in the Pekin Daily Times online edition in 2012.]

Prickly Pear Cactus – a Link to Illinois’ Past

[Note: This post originally appeared in June 2012 at the Pekin Daily Times online.]

          While growing up in the Chicago area in the 1960s, I had thought that just about everything in the landscape around me was a product of our modern civilization.  The houses, streets, bridges, and railroad tracks were obviously built; and, of course, the lawns, flower gardens, and neighborhood trees were planted.  Nothing was wild, as far as I could see.  As a child, I even assumed that the sandy beaches of Lake Michigan had been hauled there by the truckload when the city was built.

          But I also learned—maybe as early as the 2^nd grade, on a field trip to the Little Red School House Nature Center—that much of Illinois had once been covered by a type of grassland called “prairie.”  Yet I thought that the prairie had been gone for so long that it may as well not have even existed.  The nature center had a small prairie as a demonstration, but it could not convey the idea of grasslands stretching to the horizon.  I saw the “country” a few times in my young life, and it was all farmland, and had been so for generations.

          Such thoughts were coursing through my mind recently as I drove home one day through the sand hill region of Mason County and noticed the blooming prickly pear cactus along the roadsides.

          Now, cactus is not normally what most folks would associate with Illinois.  But eastern prickly pear occurs in about half of Illinois’ counties.  Many residents of rural Mason County are very familiar with prickly pear cactus.  Few like it, though, as far as I can tell, judging by the frowns and disparaging words at the mere mention of the plant.  It doesn’t fit with a neatly mowed lawn, and its stiff spines will make a direct encounter quite painful; they can even flatten tires. 

          Prickly pear, however, does fit in with sand prairies, which were once very common in the western part of Mason County and several other places in Illinois.  And when I see it today, along the roadsides between Manito and Havana or in remnant sand prairies, which can still be found in a few places in Mason County, I think of it as a link to the original Illinois landscape that I once heard about as a child.

Sand Prairie-Scrub Oak Nature Preserve, Mason County

        I guess it really is amazing what kids will pick up and remember.

Cottonwood Trees and Floods

[NOTE:  This essay was originally published in the Pekin Daiy Times online in May 2012.]

Early last Sunday morning, I went to my cabin along the Illinois River bluffs for an early breakfast and to enjoy the cool breezes on the screened-in front porch.  The screens usually need cleaning every so often from filtering the winds of whatever light debris is aloft.  But on this day, the screens were exceptionally filthy.  And I knew why:  downy seeds from the eastern cottonwood.

May is the month when cottonwood trees release their seeds, which are distributed across the land by winds.  The seeds have the best chance for germinating when they fall on bare ground.  And the seedlings grow best under full sun, with no competing vegetation.  Because most of the land is already occupied by vegetation of one type of another, the chances of finding suitable bare ground would seem to be low.  But here is where the Illinois River plays a role.  

The Illinois River’s yearly flood cycle is more or less predictable in a general way, and cottonwoods have adapted to that cycle.  On average, its waters, over several weeks, gradually rise toward a high water level, or flood, sometime in mid-spring, according to previous records.  When the waters recede, bare ground may be left behind.  And if events are timed just right, that will be the same time that cottonwood seeds are falling.  The floodwaters can also carry waterborne seeds to other areas along the river’s floodplain.

An eastern cottonwood, in fact, is supremely adapted to having its base covered in floodwaters for extended periods.  While an upland tree such as black oak would never survive on the Illinois River’s floodplain, a cottonwood is quite at home, and forms a valuable component of the forests.

Cottonwood is a very fast-growing tree, but short lived; a cottonwood 60 feet in height might only be fifteen years old; and a specimen older than 125 years would be very unusual.  At such an age, the heartwood may likely be rotted with numerous hollows, but useful for shelter and nesting by a variety of wildlife.  In addition, the great heights attained, perhaps 100 feet, are attractive as nest trees and perches for bald eagles.  Resting eagles are a common winter sight in the tall cottonwoods at my cabin.

So with just a little thought, I am reminded there is more to having cottonwoods on my property than cleaning the porch screens.

A Lesson in the Wind

[NOTE:  This essay was written and originally published in the online Pekin Daily Times blog, A View of Nature in May 2012.]

As I stood on Quiver Lake’s shoreline, I thought that if I hadn’t already taken the morning off from work, I might not have pursued a canoe trip on such a day.  I could see there were whitecaps on the water, and winds were already blowing about 15 miles per hour out of the northwest.  Since I had wanted to float southward toward the lake’s connection with the Illinois River, I had to make a choice:  either fight the wind and current on the return trip, with possibly higher winds, or fight them now by heading north instead of south, with an easy float back later in the day.  I headed north.

As soon as I pushed off the sandy bank, the wind immediately began to turn the canoe around, trying to blow it to the south.  And so, I used all of my strength to turn it around back into the wind. 

That accomplished, the delicate balance began:  keeping the head of the canoe pointed into the wind while also paddling and using the paddle as a rudder, as long as there was enough forward momentum. As soon as I could feel the wind begin taking the canoe in the wrong direction, I would counter with a push in the opposite direction.  The situation demanded complete attention.  Any lapse in judgment, and the wind would gain the advantage, turning the canoe around, and blowing it back south.

As long as the wind is consistent in strength and direction, with attention focused on some distance object for reference, it is relatively easy to paddle against even a 15 mile per hour blow.  But if the wind gusts or changes direction, the delicate balance can be quickly lost.

For much of the length of Quiver Lake, I managed a slow forward progress.  But then the wind unpredictably shifted as I adjusted the forward tip of the canoe slightly to the left.  And it pushed the canoe further to the left than I had planned, even as I tried as hard as I could to bring it back.  Then the canoe itself began to act as a sail, and I had to finally accept the inevitable:  the wind would win no matter what I did.

A lesson was there, I was sure:  something about going against the grain, or fighting the elements, or rolling with the flow.  Or what about the song that said the wind held some kind of an answer?  I would figure it out later.

I accepted my fate of being blown into a flooded black willow and silver maple woodland, where I would find shade and sanctuary.  Above me, the winds played havoc with the tree canopies, but it was calm in the understory.  And so I ate my breakfast and relaxed, glad to have taken the northward track.