The River Landing

The Way Forward

“There’s no accounting for the inaccuracies of memory or the prognostications one can only see looking backwards.”— Jennifer Delahunty, from “Future Perfect,” an essay published in Fourth Genre, Spring 2022.

 

In my mind’s eye, as clear as what once was reality, I saw the trail winding ahead through a rough forested landscape of bluffs and ravines at Spring Lake Park north of Macomb.  For the longest time, the only wildlife was a fleeing white-tailed deer.  Where are the birds?  I had wondered.  I was there for the hike, but I also wanted to see birds, maybe catch the tail end of the fall migration.  So I slowly kept following the trail, highly attentive to my surroundings.  Still, all I heard was the wind.  But then, after a short while, as if a genie had granted a wish, I heard a faint “kluk, kluk, kluk, kluk” echoing among the trees.  A pileated woodpecker.  I knew these woods were large enough to attract this species, but they’re not common.  In the leafless forest, I was able to track down the bird by listening for its calls and searching with my binoculars.  It was about 500 feet away, climbing the side of a shagbark hickory.  Then, as if my mind-video had lost its streaming connection, the images dissipated, replaced by the actual reality and frustration of being stretched out on the living room couch, starring at the ceiling, as I paused between chapters of Paul Theroux’s novel, The Family Arsenal.

 

Pileated woodpecker (Photo credit:  Cornell Lab of Ornithology).

 

        Doctor’s orders.  I was into the second week of recovery from outpatient surgery:  lie down as much as possible during the day, no hiking, no exercise, lift nothing heavier than a gallon of milk.  I think I never realized just how incredibly delicate is the human body.  Could recovery really take four weeks?

        Outside it was all deep snow and ice; two bad January storms back to back.  My wife Julie shoveling; me watching out the window, feeling helpless as a newly hatched spring chicken.  I adjusted the headphones and listened to solo piano music, hoping to perhaps drift off to sleep and dream of better days.  And while attempting to steer my dream’s subject matter, I thought again about past encounters with pileated woodpeckers.

         I saw my first around 1980 while vacationing in a small cabin near a remote lake in northeastern Minnesota, just outside the Superior National Forest.  This was the truest wilderness I had ever seen, stretching to the U.S. border and into Canada’s Quetico Provincial Park.  At the time, I was living in the Chicago area, before I had really begun paying attention to birds; so house sparrows, rock doves, and American robins were nearly the only birds I noticed, and then not very closely.  I glanced out the cabin window as I ate breakfast when a large black and white bird with a red crest, comparable to a crow, drew my attention as no other bird had ever done.  It landed on a tree stump and began pounding its massive beak into the rotting wood, searching for insects, I assumed.  I was excited to see this rare bird, one that I imagined could only be encountered in a wilderness.

         After that, I began thinking of the pileated woodpecker as a bird exclusively of the pristine North Woods.  I never expected to see one south of the Wisconsin border, let alone in Chicago.  So when I returned home, I left thoughts of pileated woodpeckers in Minnesota and focused on my college studies and finding a way into a depressed job market.

        Several years later I was on a summer trip visiting the forested areas of southeastern Missouri when, at Trail of Tears State Park, I had another close encounter with a pileated woodpecker.  The day was hot and humid, and the forest was dense and tall; the sense of being alone in a vast wild area was not an illusion.  And when I saw the bird, it seemed to be a highly appropriate sighting considering the surroundings, but it also challenged my rigid association of this bird with the North Woods.  They were more widespread than I had assumed.  For some reason, though, I never thought about consulting a bird guide for more information, preferring, I guess, to learn by experience.

        Once I began spending more time along the Illinois and Mississippi rivers in southwestern and central Illinois, I soon noticed that pileated woodpecker sightings were quite reliable in the bottomland forests, which tend to have large fast-growing trees such as eastern cottonwood and silver maple.  And I usually had little trouble finding large holes in trees, some rectangular, that had been excavated by these birds as they foraged for insects or hammered out spacious nesting cavities, which might one day be used by wood ducks.

 

Holes excavated by pileated woodpeckers.

 

        One particularly vivid recollection of a pileated woodpecker that I often replay in my head occurred near Andalusia along the Mississippi River.  I was following the Great River Road on a quite indirect route back to Macomb.  Despite its name, the road provided only occasional glimpses of the river itself.  So when a sign announced a small roadside park near the river, I immediately pulled off the highway.  At the parking area, I didn’t see a trail leading to the river, so I bushwhacked my way to the riverbank through some brush and flood debris.  From there I had an unobstructed view of the 8.5-mile-long Andalusia Island across the side channel; the Mississippi’s main channel was on the other side of the half-mile-wide island.  After only a few moments, a pileated woodpecker, about a quarter of a mile downstream, flew across the channel toward the forested island.  Its characteristic undulating flight was unmistakable.  That scene has remained undiminished in sharpness and detail.

 

The Mississippi River and Andalusia Island.

 

*        *        *

Three weeks and I was losing patience with the slow recovery from surgery, even though lying around reading all day is nearly my favorite activity.  Mild temperatures had returned, melting the deep snows of January; northern cardinals and house finches tentatively sang.  So Julie and I seized the day to check on our cabin—closed up for the winter—along the Illinois River valley at Quiver Lake.

         Along the way, my mind easily shifted into birding mode, noting American kestrals perched on utility wires along the highway, a few soaring red-tailed hawks, an occasional bald eagle, and small flocks of horned larks in the bare-soil farm fields and along the roadside.  But there really was not much wildlife in the flat, gently rolling uplands.  Then east of the small town of Ipava, the ravines began to deepen as we neared the Spoon River valley; habitats became more diverse; and there eventually followed the wide Illinois River valley, with bottomland lakes, sloughs, wetlands, forest, and fields.  This is what I needed to help pull me forward to better days. 

         At the Emiquon Preserve and Refuge area we ate our lunch as thousands of snow geese rested in the open waters or occasionally took to the air in gradually building numbers until nearly all the birds were circling; then most of them would settle back to the water until the next cause for alarm, which seemed to be as simple as a lone bald eagle flying too close.  Nearly two miles away, across wetlands and open water, a towboat-barge traveled down the flooding Illinois River; the water was high enough so the tops of the barges were visible above the distant levee.  Later we pulled over to the side of the levee highway to view small groups of waterfowl, and here we heard our first red-winged blackbird song of the year, an event that I have long assigned to be the official beginning of the spring bird migration, the ending of which, by my reckoning, would be in May with the first call of a yellow-billed cuckoo, newly arrived from South America.  Near the blackbirds, a hidden western chorus frog called—another first for the season.

          Our cabin remained intact and safe, and I was relieved not to find a fallen tree blocking our entrance lane or even worse, a tree lying across the cabin itself.  During a brief walk down the bluffs to the flooded lakeshore, I scanned with my binoculars, from the southwest to the north, for birds flying over the floodplain forests on the far side of Quiver Lake.  But of course, I knew as I was doing so that just scanning for a pileated woodpecker would be unlikely to produce one.  We stayed only a short time at our cabin before beginning the hour drive back home; plenty of time to sort through the day’s highlights.

*        *        *

Upon returning to our quiet Macomb neighborhood from the cabin, we both had a feeling that was similar to what we typically had experienced after a long road trip from a very different and wild land.  When I entered our living room and saw the couch, though, I could no longer avoid the thought of having to slide back into a severe rest and recovery mode, at least for a little while.  Back to reading all day and traveling via my mind’s eye—our time at the cabin now being a gentle reminder that there was life beyond the living room walls.  Looking up from my books and glancing out the window would no longer create a sense of frozen exile, but would now pull me forward, along with the imperceptibly lengthening daylight hours, toward a cautious optimism.  More days at the cabin, spring wildflowers, and planning a fall trip to New England, including Maine’s North Woods and its pileated woodpeckers.

 

Reference

DeVore, S., S.D. Bailey, and G. Kennedy.  2004.  Birds of Illinois.  Lone Pine Publishing, Auburn, Washington.

Birding for the Crested Caracara and Reexamining Priorities

 

Immediately after the car’s engine started, The Eels’ song “I Like Birds” came over the stereo.  This is one of the signature songs from my favorite movie, The Big Year.  My wife Julie and I were off on a quest:  to find a bird called the crested caracara that had recently been seen (February 10, 2023) at the Emiquon National Wildlife Refuge, about an hour east of our home.

        Julie recognized the song from the movie that we had seen at least five times over the last couple of years.   She smiled and asked, “Did you purposely put on this song?” 

        “Well, yeah, it seemed appropriate.  We’re kind of doing a Bostick-like thing today.” 

        Kenny Bostick is one of the main characters in The Big Year.  He gives up nearly everything in his life, including his marriage, in a competition with other serious birders to see who can find the highest number of bird species within a calendar year.  In order to accomplish this goal, he has to chase after rarities all over the U.S., especially when a rarity is reported by other birders on rare bird hotlines.  If he wasn’t just a movie character, Bostick would be traveling to the Emiquon Refuge to seek out the crested caracara, a large falcon that is typically found in the U.S. only in parts of Texas, Florida, the Gulf Coast, and far southern Arizona.  Seeing one in Illinois is a big deal, a sighting not likely to happen again for a long time.

        On our way to the Emiquon area, we saw thousands upon thousands of snow geese all over the skies of Fulton County.  And just east of Table Grove, an entire farm field of corn stubble was covered by a dense flock of snow geese that extended for what seemed like a half mile and that came almost right up to the highway.

        “You know, if we stopped to take a picture, they would all fly,” said Julie.  She knew what I was thinking.

        “Yeah, they’re very jittery.  Just about anything can make them all take flight at once, screaming their heads off the whole time.  And then they’ll circle around several times in a giant cloud, and all come back down to the same place where they started out from.  It seems to me that they waste a lot of energy.  So what does that say about 'optimal foraging theory?'”  Julie just looked at me, about to roll her eyes, as I struggled against entering “lecture mode.”

        As we passed through Lewistown, I tried to drive slower and pay more attention to any large birds in flight or perching in treetops.  We were close to the Illinois River valley and the Emiquon Refuge and Nature Preserve.  I was fairly confident of seeing the caracara when we started out on our trip, but as I witnessed the vastness of the river valley before me, I knew that we were looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

        “This place is so big,” I said.  “Where should we look first?  I know, look for the birders.  When you see a big group of them, you’ll be able to tell by their behavior if they’ve found the caracara.  If they’re all intensely looking in the same direction through spotting scopes, they’ve got something good; if they’re all standing around talking, with each birder looking in a different direction, they haven’t found it.”

        “Or we can just ask,” replied Julie. 

        “Yeah, well…we could do that too.”

        Then we saw several cars parked along a gravel lane not far from the main highway.  “Look! Birders!” I nearly shouted.  “I’ll drive past them, and all you have to do is roll down your window, look them straight in the eyes, and say ‘crested caracara’ like it’s a secret password.  But realize, in any other context, you would look like a lunatic.”  To our disappointment, though, none of the birders had yet seen the caracara.  But the previous day, it was sighted in that exact spot, which is why the birders were gathered there.  So we drove onward, thinking that we had as much chance of seeing the bird there as anywhere.

        Further away on another gravel road, a car came toward us from the opposite direction.  I slowed to a crawl, opened the window, and made a sign for the other car to stop, which it obligingly did.  And I simply said, “caracara?”  The driver kind of smirked, but said “no” in a suspicious sort of way, as if he actually had seen the bird but did not wish to reveal that fact, keeping the information to himself so that he and only he could count the bird, and thereby beat out his birding competitors by one species on the 2023 list of elite Illinois birders.  But no, that’s crazy talk, I thought.  Or was it?

        At the Emiquon Nature Preserve observatory, a quite friendly, talkative older woman approached us while walking her three highly energetic, unleashed dogs.  I felt relief that she wasn’t angry, as one of her pets had just barely escaped being run over by my car. 

        “What’re you all lookin’ for?” she asked.

        “A crested caracara,” I curtly answered while adjusting my spotting scope.  “A crusted…what?  Wait, I’ll look it up on my phone,” she replied.

        “No, it’s crested, crested caracara,” said Julie.  “It’s rare around here.” 

        “Oh,” she replied. And then we heard quite a few details about her personal life and religious interests before she and the dogs went happily on their way.

        After that encounter, we drove around a bit more within the Emiquon area on the gravel backroads and on the state highway that sits on top of a narrow levee with no shoulder to speak of:  a very dangerous situation for birders who are prone to stop with no warning if they see a bird with even the slightest possibility of it being a rarity.  And I began to realize that we probably would not see the caracara.

        “You know,” I sadly said, “yesterday was really the day for seeing this bird.  Birders came from Chicago, and they saw it, according to the internet birding hotlines.” 

        Julie gave me a rather strange look.

        “I’m not making this up!  They’re the hotshot birders, though; they always see the rarities.  I guess we shouldn’t have waited, but I had to take my 96-year-old mother to the cardiologist!  You know, she does have an aortic aneurysm that’s about to explode.”

        Julie turned to face me and raised her eyebrows.

        “Still,” I continued, “I’ll bet we would have seen the bird if I had canceled her doctor’s appointment.  Next time…well, never mind.”  And we headed to Havana, across the Illinois River, for lunch.

 

Always an Eagle

 

“My mind ain’t nothing but a total blank…”— Merle Haggard

 

Arriving at the Quiver Lake cabin on an early May afternoon, the first sounds I heard were the clear song notes of a Baltimore oriole.  That was a good start, but having missed most of the bird migration this spring, I was nearly desperate to see as many species as possible during this all too brief cabin visit.

        My preference would have been to be at the cabin during sunrise just after a strong storm system had passed in the night, bringing the migrating birds down into the trees; but time and circumstances offered only a windy afternoon.  Even so, I enthusiastically exited my vehicle, grabbed my binoculars, and began to stalk slowly around our wooded 1.75-acre property.

        There certainly were more birds around than a month before, but the wind made it difficult to hear faint call notes or songs of whatever migrants, especially warblers, might be high in the tree canopies.  And with most trees leafed out, finding tiny songbirds by sight in the chaotically blowing tree branches became an exercise in futility.  Glancing outward over the Illinois River valley, I saw that water levels had risen quite a bit since my last visit, flooding out mud flats along Quiver Lake that may have attracted herons, egrets, or migrating shorebirds.  My afternoon dedicated to birding was by every turn becoming a bust.

        So I gave up on the upland woods and headed to the lakeshore.  Midway down the steep river valley bluff, I recalled that a bald eagle nest was visible, maybe a half mile away, just barely protruding above the floodplain forest canopy between Quiver Lake and the Illinois River:  higher up the bluff, nearby tree branches blocked the view; only a few feet further down the bluff, the nest was hidden by surrounding forests.  Only at one unique elevation was the nest in clear view.

        With my spotting scope set on full power, I clearly saw an adult eagle on its nest, white head and yellow beak shining in the sunlight; and it was attending to at least one nestling.  I had been loosely monitoring this nest for the last four years, and it looked as if at least one eagle had fledged each year.  I also knew there were three other bald eagle nests along the river within a few miles.  So the Quiver Lake nest is not just an isolated case; there is a small local population here between Havana and the National Wildlife Refuges (Chautauqua and Emiquon).  During winter, there are even more eagles around, most having migrated from the north; seeing twenty or more within a few hours of birding along the river valley is not unusual.  Whatever else may seem tenuous or unpredictable these days, a bald eagle sighting in this area is a near certainty at any time of the year.  And that fact alone is enough to bolster my mood; because by the early 1970s, eagle populations had declined so much nationwide that there were no eagles nesting in Illinois.

 

Bald eagle nest at Sangamon Bay along the Illinois River

(near Browning), 1996.  Many trees died in this area due to

extended  flooding in 1993.  See The Eagle Quest link below.

 

Bald eagle nest at Meredosia National Wildlife Refuge along

the Illinois River, 1999.  Many trees died in this area due to

extended  flooding in 1993.

 
 

        In the late 1980s, I remember feeling extremely excited seeing a bald eagle, but also troubled because I was not sure how long they would be able to survive against increasing loss or disturbance of natural areas and the continued, widespread use of a variety of toxic chemicals that can enter food chains ending with the eagle.  In my mind, the bald eagle had become a sad symbol of our nation’s carelessness toward the environment. But now, almost fifty years after the pesticide DDT had been banned in the United States (DDT had been linked to the decline of several bird species, including the bald eagle) and following years of targeted efforts by wildlife agencies to increase bald eagle populations, the species has been deemed officially “recovered.”

                                            *  *  *

        I spent more time than usual watching the nesting eagles before continuing down the bluff side to the lakeshore.  Good things are happening these days, I kept reminding myself, even as my mind was filled with thoughts of the COVID pandemic and the recent foreign cyberattacks on our nation’s petroleum pipelines that instantaneously resulted in panic buying and gasoline shortages on the East Coast.  One lesson of these modern times, it seems, is not to take anything for granted.  I say “anything” because who would have ever expected that at the first mention of a possible pandemic in early 2020, the first thought in the minds of many across the country would be to run to the local supermarket and buy up all of the toilet paper in sight?  Not the number two thought, but number one!

        When I eventually emerged from the dense tree cover bordering Quiver Lake, my view expanded to the open skies.  I panned for soaring raptors, searching especially for broad-winged hawks or ospreys, another species severely impacted by DDT and still recovering. Then I saw a soaring adult bald eagle, which very likely was the mate from the Quiver Lake nest.  And still panning, I immediately saw an immature bald eagle, probably two or three years old, with little doubt, part of the local population.  Feeling the same excitement as my first bald eagle sighting four decades ago in the wilds of northeastern Minnesota, I knew that I would never take an eagle sighting for granted. 

        As I began climbing back up the bluff to the cabin, I heard a singing black-throated green warbler.  Following the repeating song, I found the bird in a small red cedar tree, alternating between singing and energetically foraging for insects.  I simply stood there watching this bird, who was unconcerned about my presence a mere fifteen feet away, minute after minute; the best sighting ever.  I could have easily begun thinking about declining warbler populations and multiple threats these Neotropical migrants face, such as loss of overwintering forests in Central America or crashing into glass-walled buildings, but I didn’t; I just watched, mesmerized, I guess, my mind a total blank.

 

References

Campbell, M.F., editor.  2002.  Finding bald eagles in Illinois.  Illinois Audubon Society, Danville, Illinois.

del Hoyo, J., Elliott, A., and Christie, D.A., eds.  2010.  Handbook of the birds of the world, vol. 15.  Weavers to New World warblers.  Lynx Edicions, Barcelona.

 

Links to Bald Eagle-related Posts on this Blog:

 

Bald Eagle Swims with Fish in Talons

Bald Eagle Takes Down a Canada Goose in Flight

The Eagle Quest 

Timeless Scenes Along the Illinois River

Bald Eagles on a Morning Commute

 

A Matter of Chance (Or A Unique Nuthatch Encounter)

        The weather forecast was for a sunny, windy day.  So while my wife left to scout for garden flowers and pottery, I headed to Emiquon National Wildlife Refuge for a muddy hike at the confluence of the Spoon and Illinois rivers. 

        As I left my vehicle, the wind howled through the tree tops, blowing steadily at about 25 miles per hour with gusts to nearly 40.  In the stand of young, closely packed cottonwood and silver maple trees near the parking area, treetops intermingled in the wind, the sound of wood hitting wood, with occasional cracking sounds and falling branchlets.  The larger, mature trees moved less, but their canopies were in constant motion.  The big gusts sounded as if, in an instant, everything would be swept up and scattered to a thousand destinations.

        It occurred to me that a hike through this bottomland forest, with abundant standing, flood-killed timber, may not be the smartest thing to do.  But then I considered the situation from the standpoint of chance or probabilities:  the likelihood that some event may or may not happen, such as a coin toss coming up heads or tails.  What, I thought, were the chances of any particular tree or branch falling at just the moment when I would be in precisely the right location to be hit?  The chances could not be very high, even in the heavy winds, as the few branches that fell were small and random.  I have often had similar thoughts when passing beneath a widowmaker (i.e., a large tree leaning over so far, it seems just about ready to fall):  nothing about my presence beneath the tree could cause the tree to fall at that exact moment, so there would be no need to rush.  And yet, most people would never do such a thing; or if they did, would do so with high anxiety and as quickly as possible.

        So I continued on my hike, but stayed away from standing dead timber just in case.  When I reached the Spoon River, I saw that the river bank had recently collapsed.  The Spoon River in this area is an actively meandering river, where the outside curves are typically vertical drop-offs due to the riverbank collapsing and washing away; while the inside curves, or opposite bank, have a much gentler slope, where sediment is deposited.  A few feet in front of where I stood, it was a sheer 10-foot drop-off to the river below.  If the bank collapsed at just that moment, I would have been in trouble, but then I realized that the likelihood of that happening must be very low.  Still, it made sense not to get too close to the edge, for I had no idea whether or not an added 230 pounds could have tipped the precarious balance toward further bank collapse.  I stood back and gingerly peered over the edge for a quick look, then tempted fate no longer and moved back toward the forest.  The bank held…as I knew it would.

 

Confluence of the Spoon and Illinois rivers

 

        Finally at the point where the Spoon River joins the Illinois River, I found a comfortable place to sit beneath a large cottonwood tree (with no dead branches above) that leaned backward at about the same angle as my backyard furniture.  At this point on my Spoon River hikes, I usually make a few notes, read, or even take a nap (ten years before, I wrote my wedding vows in the same location). The wind continued to blow as hard as ever, but I felt safe under this particular tree; it had withstood worse winds and maybe even tornados during its many decades of life.  And then I was hit!  Not by a branch, but by a load of excrement dropped from a white-breasted nuthatch high above; it landed directly on the page where I was writing in my journal.  Naturally, my first thought—well, maybe my second thought— after this highly improbable event was:  what were the chances of a bird letting loose with a salvo at the precise moment when I would be in the proper place with my open journal in the path for a direct hit?  I had no idea of the answer, but I certainly hoped that the probability for such an event occurring would be orders of magnitude higher than any particular tree along the trail falling at a highly inconvenient moment. 

        I fully admit that I looked around a bit more at the swaying trees on the way back, glad that I chose to stay away from the very edge of the river bank, and a little less sure of myself than on the way out.

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.

 

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)

Mouth of the Spoon River: Side Channels Illustration

This photograph was used by Patti Malmborg Reilly to create the illustration on the title page of Part 1, River Life in Side Channels:  A Collection of Nature Writing and Memoir.  I took this shot from my canoe in April 2008 on the Spoon River, just before the trees leafed out. 

The far tree line, across the Illinois River, is a small peninsula called "Bellrose Island."  The Havana Park District maintains this as a natural area.  The riverbank on the left side of the photograph is part of the Emiquon National Wildlife Refuge.

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.

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).