A Foxy Spring?

“In like a lion and out like a lamb” is how March is described. This year was no exception; two weeks ago it was bottoming out at -35 F every morning, and now at the tail end of the month temperatures are in the low 50’s. That’s an 85° difference. Which is completely insane.

Here in Fairbanks the snow has been melting in record time. Local roads are turning muddy, while the main roads are as dry as the Indiana Speedway in July; snow is avalanching from roofs onto the ground and winter trails are deteriorating, making it hard to mush and snowmachine anymore. Most people have put away their skis for the year, and I have never seen so many folks running around in tee shirts this early.

Two years ago it snowed all through April, and break-up didn’t happen until the middle of May. Are we really done with the white season this year?

Well, today I heard a fly.

I sat in shirtsleeves on my nice sunny porch enjoying a cup of afternoon tea when I saw something moving low and slow among the trees. Too slow to be a squirrel or a chickadee, I realized it was a grouse, as big as a chicken and trying hard to be stealthy. That was almost impossible; not only was she very large, she was almost black. This surprised me, because just a month ago our sportsman neighbor showed us a photo of some grouse that were as white as the snow he lined their plump little dead bodies upon. A month later, it’s still pretty white around here, and that’s normal.  But I wondered: what causes birds like grouse to change color?

Most research suggests the hormonal changes causing the shift from white to black coats (and vice-versa) is driven by day length. Other studies have shown a strong air temperature cue that causes coat-color change in some animals. The first theory could be a problem if snowmelt happens before the birds darken: then you’d have white birds running around on black ground (pursued by slobbering foxes) waiting for the days to get longer. The second theory could cause the opposite problem: warm enough to change the birds but not melt the snow, which is what I saw today.  Either way, bad for the birds and great for my neighbor (and the foxes).

As for this particular grouse, not only did she stick out like a sore thumb, I saw her break through the fragile snow crust in a clearing and slip and fall right on her tailfeathers. My heart went out to her then: first she was this wild creature moving with the noiseless fluidity born of utter caution that tasty animals must have to survive, and now she was no different from a little kid on her first skis.  I hoped a safe shelter awaited her nearby from all the nosy dogs, foxes, and gun-toting sportsman that like to prowl the neighborhood.

Why I couldn't sleep

On Sunday afternoon around 4 PM I was upstairs looking for something when I heard a loud bang, and realized that a bird had hit the window. Gingerly I opened the balcony door a crack, in case I was met with a disoriented bird trying to dart inside. Instead I saw a young robin on its back, its feet up in the classic pose of death. As I opened the door it turned its head towards me and opened its beak wide, once, then again, but no sound came out, and after flexing its body it lay still. I closed the door softly, hoping it would right itself and recover, as I've seen many birds do, and after a few moments I opened the door again. This time it didn't move, but I put on leather gloves and got a clean plastic waste paper basket, figuring that an unconscious bird waking up inside a container it would remain calmer during the short trip down the stairs and out the front door to freedom. I stood over it, talking to it, half expecting a sudden burst of movement, but it moved not a muscle. Gently I picked it up by the feet and slid my other gloved hand under its body.

I have disposed of dead birds before, but always much after the fact, quickly flinging the dried up little things into the bushes. This bird was surprisingly heavy, and limp like a rag doll, its little head slumping to the side as I placed it in the container. After bringing it out the front door I took it in both hands and went down the path that leads to a little duck pond. It was still warm and showed no outward sign of injury, its yam colored breast marked with juvenile speckles. Not a dried up little thing at all but a creature that had been throbbing with life just a few short minutes ago.  I chose a spot under some bushes and laid it in a little depression on the ground. Its body draped limply in the depression, as if the little birdie was fast asleep, except that sleeping birds don't lie comatose on the ground.  I said goodbye and walked back to the house.

It bothered me for the rest of the day.  The heave of its body I now realize was the moment of death. I have never watched a person or an animal die, but I will never forget the way it opened its beak, as if to say: it hurts! It hurts!

Later on the balcony I examined the window and found the tiniest smudge of gray down stuck to the glass. The window was caked with dust, and around the smudge I took my finger and drew an outline of a hawk, not because I thought it would help but because I felt it was my fault that the poor bird flew into the window. If I had put a hawk sticker on the window this would never have happened, and I would not be remembering so vividly a bird experiencing its final moments in unmistakeable pain and surprise and terror.

This morning, rather than stew over how many more bodies would be waiting for me this evening, I got out the windex and paints and brushes, and did three windows before leaving for work.

"Wood Frogs--Oh Boy!"

That's a quote from my friend Jim Harris, a naturalist and videographer, when we last spoke about hunting for wood frogs back when I was living in the Chicago area.

Wood frogs are rather rare in Illinois; in interior Alaska they are still pretty abundant, and I heard the first wood frog of this spring May 5, a lone frog calling from Simon's small pond in the black spruce bog just west of our cabin.

What do they sound like? Kind of like a quack-quack-quack or a tiny little car engine trying to start. I shot some video of their chorusing last year on May 15, 2010 from the same pond. Turn your sound up, it's pretty faint!
wood frog chorus

Will there be more wood frogs a-calling soon? I hope so, last year they were quite loud at sunset and seemed to be in all the ditches and nooks and crannies around our neighborhood.

photo from Forest Preserves of the Kankakee River Valley, Kankakee, Illinois

It's ON!!!

2 minutes ago---

While out in the still sunlit yard just after 9 PM gathering kindling for tonight's fire I heard what I thought was an out-of-tune trumpet blasting away just beyond the trees lining O'Brien Street. I stood and watched a big white winged creature make a sharp left turn out over the musher's field. A trumpter swan!!!! The birds are returning!!! The ponds have yet to thaw, but we're on our way!!

Don't Get Eaten by a Bear!

Joe and I live in Goldstream Valley, about 1 mile from a bar and grill called Ivory Jacks. Today Joe got a phone call from our friend Christine, who found out through the mushing grapevine that a very large grizzly bear left some fresh tracks about 1.5 miles N of Ivory Jacks. Here's the message posted on a local blog,
Kevin McCarthy's Dallas Digest

Hi Folks,
Mary Shields just called me to pass on info she got from Fran Bundtzen. There are grizzley bear tracks near her place in Goldstream Valley. She lives on Jones road - 1 1/2 miles N of Ivory Jacks. The O'Connor Creek trail crosses her drive way at a right angle and the tracks were in the area of the trail. Tracks were "huge" with claw marks over 3 inches. So be careful if you are out and about in the vicinity.
Shirley

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For those of you who don't know--it's not good when you see a bear in midwinter. That means it's desperately hungry. The bear may never have denned up because it didn't put on enough fat, or it woke up because it needs more reserves to make it through the winter.

Rodents!

We have a mouse in our house.

Well, Joe says it's a vole. Vole, schmole, it's a rodent, and I made its acquaintance today completely by accident. It scurried right past me in the shower room and vanished under the sink.


I remember going EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

Yes it's true, a woman will say that when a mouse scurries under her feet. I didn't know that either, but, trust me, it happened.

Joe heard my ear-splitting reaction and said, "Oh, that's Gerald."

He has apparently seen this bit of vermin before, and has given it a name, based on a Pink Floyd song.

Whatever, we have to set up a trap or something. Which I hate to do. Because if Gerald is really a wild Alaskan vole and not a house mouse, he qualifies as wildlife and not a varmint and I guess deserves to be captured and released as opposed to bashed or poisoned or suffocated.

But he's way too urban for my taste. I want him OUT, vole or mouse or rare Siberian Skrat, get the hell out of my house you creepy little crumb-and-poop-scattering RODENT!!

He should strive to emulate the ways and manners of Pipsqueak, our little tree squirrel. I watched Pipsqueak energetically run back and forth across our yard, his little cheeks puffy with seeds. Pipsqueak appears to be setting up a cache of food for the winter, and as I encountered him today for the first time, he paused in the midst of his work, as if utterly flabbergasted at the sight of me. He looked up, his little cheeks distended, then bent down quickly, as if to resume his business. But, clearly, he was peturbed, so he did what I think is the squirrel version of the double-take, as in: WHAT THE @%&$??!!!

Pipsqueak is about half the size of your typical Midwestern gray tree squirrel, is cinnamon colored, and has a decidedly Ewok-ish face. If you don't know what an Ewok is, time to cuddle up to the Star Wars trilogy again. In other words, his face bore a look of rodent-like gravitas, as if he could fly a spaceship if he really wanted to. Instead he let out a sound like a rubber squeaky toy, and fled up the side of a nearby spruce.

You will note there are no pictures accompanying this post. Rodents move at the speed of light. Perhaps Pipsqueak and Gerald will get into their tiny space ship hidden somewhere in our yard and fly back to their forest moon, Endor.

Gerald, are you listening?