The River Landing

Taking it Like a Plant

[Note:  This essay originally appeared in the Pekin Daily Times online in July 2012.]

Yesterday (July 13, 2012,) we finally had rain for the first time in a long while.  I know this because when I returned home from work, the bird bath, which had been dry, contained a small puddle of water.  It wasn’t much rain, but maybe it provided some relief for struggling plants.

Not only have plants suffered from lack of water, but this year Japanese beetles have been more numerous.  And Japanese beetles feed on flowers, fruits, and leaves.  This year, more than ever, I noticed the many brown, skeletonized leaf remnants left behind after the beetles had eaten off all the green. 

The plants have no options, though.  Unlike animals, which can flee to better circumstances, a plant must stay and take whatever abuses the environment can offer.  And that might include lack of water, lack of nutrients, flood, fire, disease, being eaten, wind damage, lightning, freezing rain, and heavy snow.  If it is ill-adapted, at the very least it will fall behind in the competition for resources with other plants that are better adapted.  In the worst case, the plant will die.

Around my home the Japanese beetles seem to prefer sassafras, linden, grape vines, and non-native Siberian elms more than other species.  So this year, while all of the plants have had a setback because of the drought, these species will be further stressed.

Early in the fall, I will set my woods and prairie on fire to help restore the native plant communities.  This will further stress the Siberian elms and sassafras, which have been encroaching upon the prairie.  The native oak and hickory trees, which are well adapted to fire and drought, have been left alone by the beetles; and so these species will be given a slight advantage.  The oaks and hickories are a natural part of the prairie and savanna communities that I am trying to restore.

I find these types of interactions endlessly fascinating, especially when unanticipated circumstances arise.  But when lightning next strikes, I’ll take it like a man…and seek shelter.    

Postscript:  While re-reading this essay, I had somewhat forgotten about last year’s extreme drought and hot summer temperatures.  For comparison, this year in central Illinois, we have had abundant spring and early summer rains, so much so that the Illinois River experienced a record high flood in April.  Japanese beetles have been scarce; temperatures have been rather cool for summer; and even though we’re now in the regular summer drought period, vegetation growth has been very healthy, almost lush.  Unfortunately for my prairie restoration, a year such as this will allow additional tree encroachment onto the prairie, which I may have to compensate for by having another fall fire.  Or I may not, just to see what happens....

The prairie at home on August 11, 2013

Bird Memories: Caspian Tern

        The other day I was sitting outside our cabin overlooking Quiver Lake, stretching out the last few minutes until I would have to head for the office and begin my workday, when a Caspian tern flew past.  For me, it was the first Caspian tern of the season.

        Sometimes seeing certain bird species can bring back a flood of memories about a particular place or circumstance.  So for a few moments, as the tern flew past, I was transported backward in time and distance, nineteen years to North Manito Island in northern Lake Michigan.  The National Park Service manages most of the 14,973-acre North Manito Island as a wilderness area.  I went there to backpack into the wilderness, away from the campground near the boat dock, away from civilization and everyone.

        The tern that I saw at Quiver Lake brought everything back.  I remembered arriving on the ferry, wasting no time before hiking away with my heavy frame backpack on one of the island’s few trails.  And then I left the trail and set up my base camp on the top of a remote forested dune, where I stayed for the next two days.  I spent the evenings at the base camp, reading by flashlight, and hiked to other parts of the island during the day.

        On one of those hikes, I went to the island’s northern boundary, and saw Caspian terns flying at eye level as I sat at the edge of a forested dune high above Lake Michigan’s cold waters, with blue skies and clear blue waters stretching to the horizon.  I sat there for a long time, as I recall, my feet over the side of the steep dune, watching the terns flying back and forth, sometimes dropping to the water for a fish.  The only sounds were the wind in the trees and the terns occasionally calling, so high above the water was I that the noise of crashing waves was swallowed up in the distance.

 

North Manitou Island and Lake Michigan, 1993

 

        A lot has happened since that day.  And it is remarkable how vividly and quickly the scenes appeared in my mind’s eye, just because a bird flew past when I happened to be watching. 

 [Note:  This essay originally appeared at the Pekin Daily Times online, August 11, 2012.]

 

Illinois River Flood Essays

Floating the Floodplain:  A June Gift 

For a couple of days it looked like Sunday’s weather (June 30, 2013) would be a gift.  And when Sunday arrived, the predictions, for a change, proved true:  cool and sunny, with a strong breeze from the north.  So I wasted little time before dragging my canoe to the water’s edge at Quiver Lake, a backwater of the Illinois River near Havana.  I needed at once to take advantage of this fine early morning.  Because as the day wore on, winds would increase, always a problem for a canoeist; temperatures would rise; and the river would become busy with recreational boaters.

Aerial photo of the Havana area, about 40 miles southwest of Peoria 

Another reason this day was a gift was because the river was still in flood, as it had been since April; the river, in fact, broke its 1943 high-water record on April 25.  And although it had gone down quite a bit, I suspected that I could still canoe through the flooded forests, which lay between Quiver Lake and the river, and then cross over the river to the Thompson Lake levee, which separates the floodplain beyond from the river.  As I paddled against the increasing north winds, I could just barely hear a towboat-barge chugging upriver, and I imagined its powerful diesel engines driving a massive propeller, leaving behind a turbid, foaming wake.  That’s where I was heading now, about a mile to the west.  But first I needed to cross Quiver Lake and, hopefully, its surrounding forest.

Boathouse at Quiver Lake at the height of the 2013 flood    

I quickly made it to the levee that forms the southern boundary of Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge at the head of Quiver Lake.  The water in the refuge was higher than Quiver Lake and just barely poured over the levee’s spillway.  Snowy egrets foraged on the spillway, occasionally grabbing small fish from the cascading flood waters.  Part of me wanted to stay and watch the egrets, and to see what other birds were at the refuge, but I felt like the morning was slipping away.  And so, I paddled onward, anxious and regretful at the same time.

As I entered the deep shade of the floodplain forest at Chautauqua Refuge’s southwest corner, I could see continuous water all the way to the Illinois River.  At 15.9 feet, the river was about a foot over the forest floor, allowing more than enough depth for my canoe.  As I negotiated around trees, floating logs, and other debris, the forest came alive with bird song.  Highlights included the prothonotary warbler, warbling vireo, Carolina wren, American redstart, red-headed woodpecker, pileated woodpecker, and the strange clucking-like “song” of the yellow-billed cuckoo.  Surrounded by every shade of green imaginable, I felt as if I were in some ancient southern swamp, where it still might be possible to see the rare ivory-billed woodpecker, as some have claimed in recent years.  I wanted to linger, but the wind in the forest canopy and a fast-moving John boat on the river reminded me to move along.

At the edge of the forest, I slowly floated out into the river, looked up- and downriver and saw no one.  Even in the river’s main channel, the current was slight, despite flood conditions.  But I paddled hard and fast, not wishing to be caught in the open water if a swift cruiser or bass boat should make its way around the river bend.  I was also concerned about the river’s famous “jumping” Asian carp, which can grow very large and heavy.  I’ve had these slimy, bleeding, highly energetic, flapping fish jump into my canoe before, and it was not a pleasant experience, for me or the fish.  So when I soon reached the Thompson Lake levee, I was a bit relieved.

Here I beached the canoe and climbed the levee, perhaps 10 to 15 feet above the river.  Before me an extensive cattail marsh, with small patches of open water, stretched for about 5 miles.  The recently restored Thompson Lake was beyond the marsh, and beyond that, about 2 miles away, the Fulton County bluffs.  This entire area, which was a highly productive farm up until the early 2000s, is now referred to as the Emiquon Nature Preserve.

I soon found a place to sit on the levee high above the marsh, unpacked my breakfast, and simply observed the scene before me.  I had dreamed about doing this very thing ever since my wife Julie and I purchased a cabin on Quiver Lake two years ago, but until this recent flood the river had not been high enough to make it through the forest in a canoe.  I thought again about how this day was a gift.

With my binoculars I saw several dead trees, which could not survive within the restored waters of Thompson Lake, with double-crested cormorants on each branch, and what looked like cormorant nests.  In the air I saw several American white pelicans attempting to find rising air columns for soaring.  Red-winged blackbirds were the most common bird in the marsh.  And while I listened to common yellowthroats and a calling least bittern, a black-crowned night heron emerged from the cattails, and flew out of sight to the southwest.  Before too long, the least bittern also emerged from the cattails for only a few seconds, flew past, and quickly disappeared again.  As far as I knew, it never appeared in the open again during my visit.  The phrase “being in the right place at the right time” came to mind.

By 10:30, I realized it would not be long before more boaters and personal watercraft would be on the river.  And as I tend to like a quiet river, I usually leave well before they are active.  So with a satisfied mind, I quickly re-crossed the Illinois River, glided through its floodplain forests, and entered Quiver Creek, just below Chautauqua Refuge’s water-control structure.  The snowy egrets were gone from the spillway and replaced by a pack of turkey vultures, standing ghoul-like with their red skinheads, watching me with nervous side glances.  The wind and current quickly carried me into Quiver Lake, and I rode the white-capped waves like a surfer, hardly paddling, all the way home to my sandy beach and cabin.  I would savor this gift of a day for a long time.

 

The Dynamic Illinois River

 [This essay originally appeared in the online Pekin Daily Times in May 2012, a year in which Illinois experienced a severe drought.]

One week ago the Illinois River was still high from a moderate flood event that inundated most of the lower-lying areas, including bottomland forests.  But the peak was short lived, and the river had gradually begun to fall.  Between last Wednesday and Friday, though, its level precipitously dropped four feet before somewhat stabilizing.

I know when the river level has changed because at my cabin along Quiver Lake, north of Havana, it is easy to see when the lake level has changed, even in small amounts.  Also, Quiver Lake is connected to the Illinois River, and whatever happens to the river, happens to Quiver Lake.

What I have seen, which is well known, is that the lake level and the river are usually in a constant state of flux.  Obviously, a large amount of rain upstream will eventually cause the river and Quiver Lake to rise.  But the river’s level will also change when the navigation dams at Peoria and below Beardstown have their gates opened or closed.  When the operators close the gates in Peoria, for example, due to falling river levels upstream, the river level below the dam drops; the water level drops in Quiver Lake sometime thereafter.  Just the opposite occurs when the gates are opened.  It’s all part of a plan to manage the river for boat traffic and towboat-barges, which need at least a nine-foot depth.

River users must adapt.  Fish adapt to these changes by moving into or out of backwaters connected to the river.  Birds also adapt:  when the river drops, waterbirds, such as ducks and double-crested cormorants, move elsewhere, because mud flats may have replaced their open-water habitats.  But shorebirds will be attracted to the mudflats…until the river rises again.

For the next few days, the Illinois River is projected to continue a gradual fall.  So mud flat habitats will continue to increase.  If that trend continues long enough, much of Quiver Lake will eventually become a mosaic of mudflats and small pools too shallow even for a canoe; Quiver Creek, which feeds into the upper end of Quiver Lake, will then become a more important source of water for the lake. 

Before that happens, though, it is much more likely that the river will experience one or more short-duration floods, like the last few weeks, before settling into its normal summer low period, the only time it is ever really close to being “stable.”  Exactly what will happen and when, no one can say.  One thing I do know for certain is that the Illinois River will eventually rise again.  At my cabin, I’ll be watching.

 

An Illinois River July Rise

 [This essay originally appeared in the online Pekin Daily Times in July 2012.]

Earlier in the week, I had read that northern Illinois experienced some very active thunderstorms and had actually received quite a bit of rain in some areas.  This, I knew, would eventually affect downstream rivers.  And so I was not surprised to see the National Weather Service’s forecast, which showed that the Illinois River in my part of central Illinois would rise about a foot between July 19 and 21.

Previous to this point in time, the Illinois River and its connected backwaters, such as Quiver Lake, had been at a stable, low level for weeks.  The lake at its upper end, near Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge, in fact, held only a trickle of water delivered by Quiver Creek; and mud flats had been exposed long enough for lush vegetation to grow.

Quiver Lake in 2012 during a drought year

So not having been to my Quiver Lake cabin for a few days, I was anxious Saturday morning (July 21) to see the lake’s condition.  How much would the lake have risen along with the river?  And what else would I find?

As soon as I arrived at the cabin, looking out on the lake from the bluff top, it was immediately obvious that the lake had risen as expected.  But it was not deep enough to prevent great blue herons and great egrets from standing in the shallows, watching for small fish to catch in their spear-like bills.  So without delay, I readied my spotting scope and binoculars and headed down the bluff side to the lakeshore.

On the way I noticed a strange splashing sound coming from the lake, sounding very much like someone washing clothes (the sound reminded me of the old semi-manual washing machine that my grandmother once used in the early 1960s).  The sound seemingly came from everywhere in the lake at once.

When I emerged from the trees at the base of the bluffs, I could see that the splashing sound came from large fish spasmodically moving about all over the lake, even in the marsh vegetation over newly flooded bottomlands.  I had witnessed this phenomenon many times:  when the river rises, fish move into the backwaters from the river and sometimes engage in spawning if conditions are favorable.  All of the fish that I could see, though, were very large common carp, a species that is not native to North America and which tends to thrive in polluted waters where other species cannot live.  Most people consider the common carp undesirable.   

Though Quiver Lake appeared to be wall-to-wall carp, it is almost unreal to think that they were once apparently even more numerous.  In 1908, for example, 24 million pounds of fish were harvested from the Illinois River; and of the total catch, about two thirds were common carp (see Man’s Effect on the Fish and Wildlife of the Illinois River, published in 1966 as Illinois Natural History Survey Biological Notes No. 57, by H.B. Mills, W.C. Starrett, and F.C. Bellrose).

(It is interesting to note that the 24-million-pound statistic has often been cited in recent years to laud the great capacity that the river and its backwaters once had for producing fish biomass.  The carp component of that statistic, however, is usually overlooked.)

Still, Quiver Lake on Saturday, with its fresh, green marsh vegetation, blue skies, brown sandy beaches, and distant forested bluffs in Fulton County, was a scene of beauty.  It made me glad to live in central Illinois near the river.

[Note:  These essays also appeared in the Spring 2014 issue of Illinois Audubon magazine, pages 16-18.]

 

More Illinois River stories can be found in my book Side Channels published in 2011.

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.

 

Birding the Flooded Forest

[Author’s Note:  The Illinois River recently experienced a record flood event (27.78 feet).  Last year about this same time, the river was also in flood, but at a much lower level, when this essay was written and originally published in the online Pekin Daily Times blog, A View of Nature.]

Last week as I drove north of Peoria to a business meeting, all of the Illinois River’s tributaries were running fast, high, and muddy.  The Illinois River had risen only slightly in recent days, but from what I was seeing, with so much water flowing in, it would soon be in flood.

When I returned from my meeting the next day, I wasted no time heading off to my cabin on Quiver Lake, a backwater connected to the Illinois River.  Soon I was sliding my canoe into the water and was on my way.  The river was either at or just below the official flood stage of 14 feet, with many of the lower lying areas under water.  I headed into the wind and slight current toward Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge.

Bird life in the flooded forests was active and loud.  Since it was early May, I was hearing resident species as well as migrants.  The latter group included the strange yellow-billed cuckoo, which returns to nest in Illinois from as far south as Argentina.  On the lake waters were a few mallards, wood ducks, and double-crested cormorants.

At the refuge’s old washed-out levee, I beached the canoe and walked toward the river.  But I could only get to about 100 feet of its normal banks because of the flooding.  Here I saw many species or heard their songs; but especially noteworthy were the American redstart, prothonotary warbler, blackpoll warbler, magnolia warbler, Tennessee warbler, and northern waterthrush.  A Swainson’s thrush brought my gaze closer to ground level, and it was then that I saw movements of a very large fish near the water’s surface.

It was a grass carp at least two feet in length, and it was feeding on submerged vegetation, reminding me of a cow grazing in a grassy field.  Grass carp are from Asia; they were brought to North America as a way to control vegetation from taking over farm ponds and other man-made bodies of water. 

But, of course, just like the jumping silver carp from Asia, grass carp eventually escaped into the natural environment.  I was concerned about the silver carp, though, because they are well known to jump into boats and slam without warming into boaters and canoeists.  That has happened to me before, but, fortunately, not on this canoe trip.

It was smooth sailing back to the cabin, with both the wind and current on my back, and no jumping carp.  And so, my afternoon of bird and carp watching came to a close. 

Wanderlust

             For most of my adult life, I have had a steady feeling of wanting to be somewhere other than where I happened to be at the time.  As strange as it sounds, being unsettled was a comfort, knowing that around the next corner would be something new and unknown, possibly even exciting.  I can trace such feelings to my earliest memories, walking with my parents along the forest preserve trails following the Des Plaines River near Chicago.  The river led to somewhere; I wanted to follow it; and I wanted to explore the forests on the other side.  But I was only a child, and so I followed my parents instead.

            As a young man, I traveled by motorcycle, planning my trips over the colder months, hitting the highway every summer.  Around Lake Michigan, to Minnesota’s Boundary Waters, the Great Plains, the Rocky Mountains, and the Mississippi River I searched for remote areas, obscure pathways, and what I perceived as untrammeled wild areas.

            My destinations were varied, but they had one commonality:  natural surroundings, far from the sounds of traffic, steel and concrete, the bustle of cities, the smoke and debris of modern progress.  It would have been foolish, though, as some do, to denigrate the roads that brought me to my destinations, the vehicles that carried me, the society that could produce such products, or the farmlands that sustained that society.  These are all necessary and good.  But for just a short time, I longed to remove myself, if only temporarily.

            These days the wanderlust is well below the surface.  And I often wonder why.  Is it because I no longer live in a big city, but in a rural area with abundant forests, fields, rivers, and wetlands near my home?  Is it simply age?  The restlessness of youth has undoubtedly waned with age, and I have actually visited many of the sites that held a distant mystery when I was younger.  Perhaps my waning wanderlust has something to do with finally marrying in my late forties and becoming a homeowner with a few acres of land.  Most of the time, I can truly say that I am where I wish to be.

            And yet, waning does not mean dead.  I still make my plans as much as ever.  My search for natural surroundings, though, tends to be closer to home:  Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge, Sand Prairie-Scrub Oak Nature Preserve, our cabin at Quiver Lake, and other nearby sites.  And yet, sometimes when I see a sharp-shinned hawk on its spring migration to the north woods, perhaps the northern shore of Lake Superior, I’ll want to follow.  It’s happened before.

 

[Note:  This post originally appeared in the Pekin Daily Times blog, "A View of Nature."]    

The Flood Aster

So far this year, the pattern of water levels and flow in the Illinois River—that is, the river’s hydrology—has resembled what might be expected for a typical Midwestern river like the Illinois.  This is the case insofar as the pattern, in a general way, consists of an extended spring flood followed by relatively stable, low water in the summer.

During the spring flood, fish have access to backwater areas for spawning, and plant seeds are distributed in the flood waters for later growth when the waters recede.  If the water stays low after the flood, lush wetland plant communities will develop on the low-lying floodplain, producing a nutritious seed crop in the fall for migrating waterfowl.  This is the pattern that has been established for thousands of years, a pattern to which the plants and animals that use the river’s floodplain have been especially adapted.

Quiver Lake wetlands, July 2012

One such species is a plant called the decurrent false aster.  It is a rare species; in fact, it can be found only along the Illinois River valley and a few nearby sites.  During years when the river follows its normal historical pattern, the decurrent false aster may do very well, and it may be easy to find this plant along the river’s edge and in dried out floodplain lakes and sloughs.

Decurrent false aster among other wetland plants 

The decurrent false aster produces flowers from August through September.  So yesterday (August 17), when I walked down the bluff to get a closer look at Quiver Lake, an Illinois River backwater, and what may now be called the “Quiver Lake wetlands,” I was especially looking for decurrent false aster flowers.  Last year I was disappointed and did not find any, and so I was not hopeful.

When conditions are favorable, though, as they are this year, the decurrent false aster may grow up to 6 feet tall as single individuals or in large patches.  So I carefully scanned the thick growth of sedges, smartweeds, and cockleburs looking for an aster-like plant towering above the rest.  I even looked far out into the wetlands with my binoculars.  And none did I find.  So I started thinking that perhaps it was still a bit too early in the season.  But when I turned around to walk back to my cabin on the bluff top, there it was, right in front of me:  a single decurrent false aster in full flower!

 

Originally Posted at “A View of Nature,” blog, on the Pekin Daily Times online, August 19, 2012

The Midwestern Drought of 2012

Posted in “A View of Nature,” Pekin Daily Times Online Blog, June 24, 2012

             The evidence has been clear for some time now:  a large portion of central Illinois is experiencing a severe drought, of a kind normally seen only once in ten years.  Streams are running low or dry; and from crops to natural areas, vegetation is visibly suffering.

           And nowhere is this drought more evident than in the pure sand hills of Mason County.  Sand has a poor ability to retain water or nutrients even under favorable conditions, and when a drought hits in the sandy areas of Mason County, conditions can be almost desert-like.

            During such conditions, gardens and croplands must be watered without fail.  In the odd corners of corn fields not reached by the irrigation rigs, for example, leaves are discolored and curled, an adaptation of the plant to minimize water loss and its exposure to full sunlight.  The plant does this to survive, but the ultimate result will be poorer crop yields.     

           Grabbing a deep handful of sandy soil shows that the soil has no moisture.  The infrequent, short periods of rain so far this season have had little effect.  Unless the current pattern changes, the crops will suffer even worse.

           In contrast, natural areas have fared better.  The sand prairie and savanna restoration in my backyard seem only slightly affected by the drought.  Species such as black oak, pignut hickory, hazelnut, little bluestem grass, sand lovegrass, purple prairie clover, and white wild indigo are well adapted to dry, nutrient-poor conditions.  These species, in fact, are survivors from the original prairies of Illinois that persisted for thousands of years against droughts and fires of magnitudes unimaginable in our current climate and domesticated landscape.

          Yes, this year’s drought is bad, but it merely hints at the possibilities.  Imagine a drought that could turn a forest into grassland.