The River Landing

Bird Expectations

At our new home in an older section of Macomb, Illinois, I’ve taken to beginning most days sitting quietly with a cup of coffee just outside our back door, listening and watching for birds. I fully expected there to be differences in the breeding bird communities between our new urban location and our former home in rural Mason County along the Illinois River valley. In the more manicured setting of Macomb, with less habitat diversity than the country, I knew there would be less species, but I also expected some overlap. Species such as the house sparrow, European starling, northern cardinal, and American robin are simply a given for any Illinois town. So I could not help from mentally making lists of those species seen and those that I eventually expected. 

        But now that the spring migration was over, where almost any species is at least possible, I was not exactly sure which species I definitely should not expect to see. By the middle of June, I had still not logged a rose-breasted grosbeak or a Baltimore oriole, which I found surprising. So I started thinking more about habitats. I would not, of course, expect true grassland species, such as a Henslow’s sparrow or dickcissel, in town, nor would I expect wetland species like a black-necked stilt. On the other hand, Killjordan Creek, less than a block from my home, could be a wild card. I had already seen, for example, a great blue heron flying high overhead apparently following the creek through town. With that thought, a belted kingfisher is high on my list of expectations. When a flash of yellow in a nearby spruce tree caught my attention, I immediately knew it as an American goldfinch, but the deep yellow made me think of the prothonotary warbler. That was certainly a bird I would not expect in my neat little neighborhood, because if any bird can be considered the quintessential floodplain forest songbird, that species is it. I should also not expect forest songbirds that require large expanses of unbroken mature forest, such as the cerulean warbler or veery. But what about shrubland species? I had already checked off the brown thrasher, gray catbird, and eastern towhee; so more shrubland birds might be expected. Blue grosebeak? Common yellowthroat? Not yet.

        From a bird’s perspective, the in-town environment must seem like a simplified type of savanna: large scattered trees within a mosaic of grasses, shrubs, and large open areas. If that is, indeed, the case, then I should be looking for birds that can also be found in savannas and habitat edges. The key word, however, is “simplified”: much of the open area is pavement; the short-clipped lawns and trimmed shrubbery in town are a far cry from a prairie grass-forb mixture with hazelnut thickets; and the standing dead timber found in natural areas, so useful to species such as the red-headed woodpecker, does not last long in an urban environment, especially when a fall would likely be over a house, road, or overhead wires.

 

Do birds perceieve this environment as a simplified savanna?

 

        Birding in town is a challenge not just because there are less bird habitats than in the country, but because one cannot simply roam around at will pointing a pair of powerful binoculars toward wherever an interesting bird might be. I can just imagine the reaction if a not-quite-recognizable bird song made its way over from the smokebush across the street, which also happens to be in front of a neighbor’s living room window. “Officer…seriously, you’ve never heard of a white-eyed vireo?” So I’ll continue to adjust my expectations to town life, and perhaps have a nice surprise once in a while near the back door—like the hermit thrush during migration or the Cooper’s hawk that I had a glimpse of for about two seconds.

Landmarks and Trail Markers

By Thomas V. Lerczak

For nearly thirty years, my sense of orientation on the landscape has been tied to the Illinois River valley, especially that area around Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge. Even though the river and its valley were not always in view, I knew where the river was in relation to where I happened to be at any time. Before that, when I lived in the Chicago area, Lake Michigan filled a similar landmark role, even though I had traveled to its shores only a few times a year; I could almost feel the big lake’s presence as the sun rose over its endless horizon. On the east side of the lake in Michigan, though, I felt disoriented, and sometimes briefly traveled the opposite direction from my destination, until I remembered Lake Michigan was on the west, not the east.
        But now I find myself living in the small western Illinois town of Macomb, amidst a landscape of table-top flat farm fields and gently rolling hills with widely spaced ravine systems. Among the level agricultural fields, there are few trees, and the view may be unobstructed for miles. What feature could I use here, far from the Illinois River, to navigate? For a time, I felt unmoored. And then one day, heading home and still over five miles from town, I noticed a distant water tower barely discernable, just above where a faraway tree line met the sky. I recognized this tower: it stands on East Walker Street, only a few short blocks from my new home, on a high spot in town. Thereafter I could associate home with the water tower, almost like a big, white signpost rising above the entire town.

 

    The East Walker Street water tower, Macomb, Illinois

 

                Looking out the author's back door.

        On such a landscape, I cannot help but think of the old trail marker trees set up by Native Americans at strategic locations to help guide their journeys at a time, long ago, when much of west-central Illinois was a mosaic of savanna and large expanses of treeless tallgrass prairies. They created the trail markers by, perhaps, bending a sapling oak into an arc, then keeping it staked in that orientation until the tree accepted its new form and continued to maintain the shape. One such white oak I recall seeing near Athens, Illinois, apparently pointed, for over three hundred years, to a good crossing on the Sangamon River miles away to the northwest. Other trail marker trees pointed to springs of clear, fresh water; villages; or important trails, such as the Chicago Portage, the shortest distance for travelers between the Des Plaines River—flowing toward the Illinois River and then the Mississippi—and The Great Lakes Basin.

        View of Macomb from the northwest side of town.

 

        Countryside about five miles southeast of Macomb.

 

        And what of life’s journey when critical circumstances converge and choices are required, possibly changing the trajectory of one’s life toward a new pathway? There was the moment I simply knew the woman sitting across from me would one day be my wife or the day I began to seize control of my life, instead of letting it float rudderless over the falls.
In hindsight, after four decades, I clearly see the trail-marker moment (names in the following reminiscence have been changed to preserve anonymity):

        Twenty years old, and going nowhere, right in the midst of Jimmy Carter’s Misery Index recession. To me, it actually did seem as if America’s best days were behind. So I felt lucky to have a job at all, and a union job no less.
        The Morgan Paper Company in a near Chicago suburb should not have been such a bad place to work for a little while, until something better came up. But in the warehouse, running the paper cutters and packing shipments, they didn’t need to hire the best caliber of people: no skills to offer, little or no education, prone to vices, bad grammar and profanity. I couldn’t believe that this was my lot in life, but sometimes it’s easier to stay than to go, especially when going meant stepping off into the unknown without a paddle.
        In fact, I helped my friend Cliff get a job at Morgan when the recession was at its worst. I think he was grateful; it was a job after all. So every day, Cliff would walk over to my paper cutting machine to visit for a few minutes before starting work. He liked routine, and I could count on these leisurely morning visits like clockwork.
        But this day, his demeanor was anything but relaxed. I saw Cliff quickly walking down the dirty warehouse aisle between stacks of wooden pallets filled with paper, and he looked nervous and agitated.
        “I hate that old man!” said Cliff.
        “What happened?” I asked.
        “I ask him for the keys to the forklift; he looks at me, spits on the floor, and walks away. And I’m standin’ there lookin’ down at a mass of mucus and spit!”
        “Yeah, he’s an ass, I’ll give you that,” I replied. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you never ask Oliver for anything?” At that, Cliff just threw his arms into the air and stalked off, shouting obscenities.
        Before starting up the paper cutter, I thought another cup of coffee was in order. And for some reason on that particular day, I noticed that the wall and floor around the coffee maker were looking pretty bad. And that’s because before filling up with fresh coffee, certain people would empty whatever coffee was left in their cups onto the floor or against the wall. This really was barbaric. But I must admit that it was learned behavior, and I sometimes did it too. It gave a little sense of freedom and power over The Man. Could it be that these guys I worked with were rubbing off on me?
        As I took my first sip of coffee, I saw out the corner of my eye that my helper, Howard, had finally decided to show up for work, a few minutes late as usual. Howard was a little slow, not quite all there, as we used to say. But he was a hard worker; and, as far as I could tell, he didn’t show up drunk or high like some of the other workers. So most of us in the shop tried to cut him some slack—all except Oliver, of course...the jerk.
        “Guess what I got here,” Howard said as he held out his rolled up fist.
        Oh man, I thought, this has got to be disgusting. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. No, I was sure I didn’t want to know.
        “We better get started, Howard,” I said. “Lots to do today.”
        At which point he began laughing manically, like the lunatic I knew him to be. Howard was probably ten years older than I was, and I think he thought of me as a naïve kid. But because I was his boss, he usually did what I told him to do.
        So I flipped the toggle switch that turned on the cutting machine; and as it came to life, I remember asking myself: Whatever happened to that smart grade school kid who was always at the head of his class and on all the honor rolls? How did he end up in here with this crowd? Then I recalled the feeling of freedom experienced on a recent motorcycle trip to the Mississippi River, which made the idea of leaving suddenly seem easier than staying. And it wasn’t too long before I did just that: off to college and I never looked back.

 

        And so, at that intersection, I took a different road, and life deposited me on the Illinois River bluffs for a time, and now Macomb. I expect it will be some time yet before I fully adjust to my new surroundings, still feeling tied to the Illinois River valley as a center of gravity. But one day recently, with heavy rain pounding down everything in sight, I sat dry in my new home, recalling the previous owners’ comments about slight seepage in the basement and maybe a leak on the sun porch roof, when I thought about little Killjordan Creek, just down the hill at Compton Park, wondering how it might handle all the extra water. Much of its headwaters are small ditches within the city of Macomb. So when the rain stopped, I took a little hike. And true to expectations, Killjordan Creek flowed high and mighty. There was a lot of water running off the land. To where? And then I recalled that this creek flows into another small stream called Troublesome Creek, which itself connects with the La Moine River about fourteen miles to the southwest. The La Moine River then empties into the Illinois River about thirty-three miles to the southeast.

 

        Killjordan Creek at Compton Park, Macomb.

        I suspect that for most visitors to Compton Park, Killjordan Creek is simply an aesthetic highlight within an attractive, manicured urban park setting, the Walker Street water tower barely in view through the treetops. For me, however, the creek provides a necessary and important link to the Illinois River valley, with its wildlife, wilderness, and yearly flood cycles. Since the sights and sounds of town now dominate day-to-day life, I would struggle a bit without such a connection.

 

References

Krohe, J., Jr. 2005. The La Moine River Basin: an inventory of the region’s resources. Illinois Department of Natural Resources, Springfield, Illinois.

McClain, W.E. 2006. Mysteries of the trail-marker trees. The Illinois Steward 15 (2): 19-22