The "Green" Winter Woods

The Cape is fairly famous for it’s “gray” winters. Gray weather-beaten shingles on the houses, gray-looking marshes once all the fall color is drained away, and gray weather often dominates the winter months. People who don’t get out much see it as the Gray days of winter. Ah, but if you actually go out into those “gray” woods, you might be surprised to find out how “green” they really are.

Before I left the Cape, I brought my camera along with me as I walked the woods behind the bog, with the express purpose of capturing the green. And this is what I found, for starters, electric green moss, made even greener by the dull brown of leaves it shines out from. There is a velvety-green kind of moss that looks like felt that I was never able to get the scientific name of, and then the bushier one commonly called “Goldilocks Moss”. I love watching moss through the year, how it slowly develops its spore capsules, how the dying circles on the moss sometimes give you a clue to where certain animals have “left their mark”. Even just noting all the different kinds is entertaining, even if you don’t know what “kind” they are. I will miss moss in Texas.

There are also all manner of plants in the “wintergreen” family, meaning just that, that they stay green in winter. One that smells like teaberry when you crumble it, called “dah” “teaberry” but also “checkerberry” and simply “wintergreen”. It has a bright red berry that is edible and works as a breath freshener, very wintergreen-like in its taste. But before you go gobbling berries be sure you have the right one.

Another related wintergreen, sometimes called Spotted Wintergreen but also the much cooler sounding, Pipsissewa, stays green throughout our winter. When you see it, the fact that it is clearly striped versus spotted makes you wonder about the eyesight of those original botanists. But I found out that the “spotted” part of the name really means, “to break up” and comes from the fact that Indians used this to “break up” kidney stones. Either way, it’s a lovely plant found in the herb layer and as green in February as it is in June.

All along one trail I take is the pale green, always looking like it needs water, Sheep Laurel, or “lambs kill” for this is a plant one shouldn’t nibble on, at least, not if you are a lamb. Its drooping leaves help it to retain water but tends to make me want to drag out the watering can whenever I see it.

On the Cape thanks to our good air quality, the trees are all coated in green lichens. Lichens of every sort, crusty round patches of sage green, lots of “fuzzy ones” called “Old Mans Beard” or “Bushy Beard” that grow on the bark but do the tree no harm.

Like the epiphytes of the rain forest they get their moisture from the air. In a clever blending of two plants into one, algae and fungus, they can both hang on and make food without taping into the host plant itself. The popular pneumonic to remember this, is “ Freddy Fungus and Alice Algae took a Lichen to each other”. Well, on the Cape they took a lichen to each other in a big way and are a large part of why a gray wood, looks more like a sage green wood in winter.

Add to that the wonderful Reindeer Lichen that often covers the ground near the trail and again you have everything but a gray wood. Reindeer lichen is way cool, first because you can imagine you are on the tundra and real reindeer are right over the ridge, plus, they are such barometers of moisture in the air, that on a dry day they will feel all crunchy whereas on a humid day they are soft as can be.

Of course there are pines to add to the green, and holly. Pitch pines, and white pines dominate our woods, and the holly makes it only about 20 miles further north than the Cape and then says “uncle” to the cold. But the Cape is warm enough for it, and the robins and other birds love the berries, which get a good fertilized start on life when they pass through their digestive system, so hollies crop up everywhere. Oh the “Holly and the Ivy”, a great song to hum to yourself while you leave the mad commercial dash of Christmas and revive yourself in the “green” winter woods.

So, if this winter looks to disappoint in the way of “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas” why not take up a new tune, “I’m dreaming of a green forest” just like the one I used to know. Oh, that might be too close to home for me, for I am presently in Baltimore, about to head to TN for Christmas and then on to Texas, where I will dream of the “green forest I used to know”.

A Christmas Gift of Otters

I am aware that I have written about otters before, my overwhelming desire to actually see a live otter on the Cape, not just their scats, their tracks, their den holes etc. I also have shared with all of you that I am a Yea God sort of person, who looks for God’s glory every day and always seem to find it. It’s goes without saying then, that I am also a “Yippee Christmas” sort of person who revels in the whole season, not just the day. The delight of every ritual that goes with it, the baking, the overly long Christmas letter I burden the world with, the mass production of peanut butter balls. I love it all.

But I also love that each year I can point to a pre-Christmas day that I feel I received a very personal, hand-tailored-by-God-for-me, sort of present. Last year it was coming upon a tree just loaded with Cedar Waxwings on a snowy day. Gorgeous, and so abundant I immediately recognized my Christmas gift and thanked God. And this year, it was the amazing gift of otters. I had been thrilled, and a little spooked that in August I had come upon that wonderful noisy otter in the containment pond at the bog. The spooked part was that I had begged to see an otter before I left the Cape, and on that very day we would get the call that would set our exit in motion. So, in my mind, the sighting on that day was a gift, a wonderful gift of answered prayer.

But as you all know, I got to drag my exit out, these three, almost four, months that have seemed like the best gift of all, have just come to an end. But before I left the Cape for the final time, I was given two incredible days of abundant otter sightings right out my window. A pair of otters had taken up residence, at least for the while, just three houses down from where I am on the lake. Remember, this cottage has a wall of windows, so the rising sun, the waking world, the sleeping swans, etc have all been mine to delight in from the moment I get up in the morning, which usually is before dawn.

What a treat, what a thrill, to look out one morning, and catch that distinctive V wake in the water, with a small head and a fast moving tail propelling the animal forward. An OTTER! And then another right behind it! They swam out together to a spot that was a few hundred yards from shore, dove down and then, after I assume, catching a fish, headed back to shore. The trick was they would always be out of sight by the time they made it to land, so I didn’t know if they were taking whatever they had caught to eat it under the dock, or if they had a den or what. But within minutes one or the other would be heading back out to the same place in the water to do that all over again. Swim around under water then beeline it back to shore. They really are such strong and fast swimmers. Amazingly this went on in the morning for over an hour. And as the light increased I could see their heads more clearly, but could never make out whether they had a fish in their mouth or not.

So many questions came out of this, unanswered as always, but fascinating all the same. Were they carrying the food back to shore to eat it there, which makes sense, but I was just amazed I could never see it, even though I had a decent look at their heads. Was it clutched in their front paws? Surely it didn’t seem to slow their progress for they were zipping. And how was it that each time, and I amazingly got to see this happen each morning three days running and once, on a rainy day, also at lunch time, how was it that they always went to approximately the same place to hunt? Surely a school of fish moves about, you would have thought there was an underwater Long John Silver’s under there providing a steady source of food. Oh, to have an underwater camera set up! And to have had the nerve to go trespassing and see where they were heading. But it is private property, so even under the cover of darkness, I didn’t think I should go lurking about in their yards. It shall just have to remain a mystery. But clearly this is my Christmas gift from above, such an abundance of otter sightings on the very last few days I was there. Thank you God!

Again this is one of those more personal essays than one loaded with enriching facts, but I did learn something new about otters as I read up on their feeding habits. Their scats are very loose and runny and full of fish scales or crab shells or whatever they ate, we have shared that before, but what I didn’t know is, that they have such a fast digestive system that the whole meal passes through them in an hour. Like the fast digesting Gink of Shel Silverstein lore…

Quick Trip

“We’ve been caught by the quick-digesting Gink,
And now we are dodgin’ his teeth…
And now we are restin’ in his intestine,
And now we’re back out on the street.”

I also know that otters cover a large home range. To assuage their hearty appetite they must cover a lot of ground going from pond to bog to marsh etc in search of food. Unless it is spring and they are having their pups they don’t remain in one spot for that long. So my being treated to days of sightings was such a stupendous gift, with such perfect timing that it is clear to me who the Sender was. Again thank you God!

Although it is true I have left the Cape, serious boo-hoo here, I still have a few Cape blogs bantering around in my brain which I shall try to find time to write, and then, together, we will learn the delights of completely changing habitats and a chance to discover a whole new set of wonders, at least when Internet access and time allow. Meanwhile, Merry Christmas everyone and may some Glory of God presents come your way too, free for the asking. Even with an economy in the tank, God’s gifting ability is never curtailed!

Eastward Bound

Living on the Cape, it is pretty hard to be Eastward bound, 40 miles tops and you would be in Provincetown and end of journey. Unless, of course, you are an Alewife, a stout member of the Herring family. The annual spring migration of these herring from the cold waters of the Atlantic through small streams that lead to the freshwater pond of its birth is a true rite of spring on the Cape.

It’s an anadromous fish, which means it spends most of its life in salt water, but returns to fresh water to spawn. One of those dazzling tricks of nature where no one knows exactly how they manage to find their way from the wide Atlantic to the one tiny stream that will lead to the pond they were born in. The fact that it takes them 3-4 years to mature to spawning age means this encoded info, this smell that smells like home, has to stay with them all that time. It is thought to be an olfactory trick, for every stream, brook, river has its own chemistry. Clearly they have a better memory for such things than I do. No GPS, no AAA maps, yet year after year they find their way.

But it isn’t the spring migration that I mean to write about in December. Rather it is the rather astonishing fact that while walking along the stream that leads from this bog pond, through a salt marsh and out to sea, I saw schools of small pale fish in the shallows. They were definitely heading downstream and there were so many of them that it seemed to me, they could only be herring, but this late in the year? It just shows how many mysteries remain for me. I had always looked for them in the spring and remember seeing schools of fish in the ponds in early fall that I was sure were the herring, but again, December! Late bloomers? Eggs that for some reason didn’t hatch in the usual one week it takes, or is there some other fish I don’t know about that also spawns in the pond and heads back to sea? Sorry that this is one of those essays where I will just share my questions with you without having the answers.

I do know that the female lays about 100,000 eggs, the majority of which will be a tasty part of someone’s food chain. For that matter, at the end of this herring run, in the phragmites that line the marsh, I found an otter hole. As usual, that premier naturalist, my dog, led me to it. A wonderful multi-hole system and a trail littered with otter scat, the silvery shiny scales of fish. What better place to hang out then the exit ramp for herring. Little bite-size, fish nibblets right out the door.

As far as the human food chain, I believe it is only the Wampanoag that are allowed to catch them now, for like so many other species, their numbers have been declining steadily. I have a faint memory of coming to the Cape as a child and catching the herring with our hands and tossing them in buckets. And the pilgrims claimed you could walk on their backs to cross the streams. Not so now. For that matter, when we first came here and found out there were “Herring Wardens” my kids thought that was a riot. Certainly a profession they hadn’t thought of adopting until they arrived. Wearing a “Herring Warden” badge would be the ultimate in macho authority!

Well, it is December, and clearly there are things I should be doing other than blogging. Nine days to my Westward bound journey and so much to do, so many places to see one more time plus Christmas cards to write, presents to buy. However, should I find an answer to my questions about the identity of these herring look-a-likes, you shall be the first to know.

Water Wars

I suppose war is a strong word, lets just say, “water skirmishes” have been taking place over the last week on Cedar Lake where this cottage is. Interloping swans have tried to make their moves, both on the lady swan here and the territory and it has led to some lively displays.


“So sorry, this female is taken, this lake is taken” might be the gentler way to handle this, but swans don’t really go in for gentle hints. Rather, at the first fly over of any other swans, this pair, first the male, then the female, puff those wings up in what is always a lovely sight, but definitely portends trouble.

The first interloper this week was a lone male, probably a young one, not yet mated, and he defiantly seemed to be making a pass at this female on the pond, which also is probably young. When I first arrived here in August, she was alone herself. I went away for 10 days and came back to find a suitor had arrived and been accepted. I don’t know if it is typical for young swans to try and steal another’s mate. They do generally mate for life, but who knows, maybe there is a trial period or maybe this male just had a lot of audacity.

At any rate, the reigning male would have none of it. First the high-speed, wings-up, charge followed by a race along the surface as he gained speed, and then the aerial chase. Wow, it was something. Wings beating the air noisily, sharp turns as he chased the male one way and another. All under the watchful eye of the young lady in question who also kept her wings fluffed up and stayed true to her man. The vanquished male finally took the hint and hasn’t reappeared since. Swans do mate for life, although there are occasional separations, but the human divorce rate is far higher then the swans, so perhaps she has made her choice and will be true to “till death do we part”.

A few days later, not a lone male, but a pair arrived, one of which still had some gray in its plumage. Probably another young couple looking for a place to call their own until the ice arrived. They landed on the far side of the lake. Instantly the resident pair went into action. Up went the wings and it was clear this wasn’t the Welcome Wagon arriving.
The new pair lifted off, flew to the far side but that wasn’t good enough. The huffy swans were heading their way and without arguing further the new pair left, continuing their search elsewhere.

And you see, that is the trouble with swans. I know I have written about this before, that they are an invasive species here in the US. Europe is their home, but they were brought here to look fetching on some rich person’s estate and now we have zillions of them. Because they are so territorial, even more so during breeding season, our local waterfowl are often driven off. The display I saw this week exemplifies what goes on in the ponds in spring and it seems, to some degree in the fall too.

I am guessing here, but I suppose a larger lake like this, and it is really more like a large pond, is preferred to the many kettle hole ponds that exist on the Cape for it probably won’t freeze up as quickly. Once winter has really set in, and all the fresh water is frozen, these swans will congregate far more amiably on the salt marshes and estuaries. Last year we must have seen 100 swans on an estuary in Mashpee.

As I write this there is mist curling over the water brought on by a cold night and the swans are right in front of me and seem intent on sleeping in. The small trio of Grebes is diving close to them but the swans barely raise their heads. Ring necked ducks and Buffleheads don’t raise the eyebrow either. Perhaps in the fall they are just intent on keeping other swans who might compete for their food, off the lake.

Well, I am supposed to be on the road to Baltimore for Thanksgiving with my family. Better close up the computer and get a move on. Happy Thanksgiving everyone, and may the blessings of this beautifully created world, free for those who chose to see it, be yours now and always.

Graced by Grebes

The grebe I feel graced to see, is the Pied-billed Grebe, with the fun scientific name of (Podilymbus podiceps) which I believe, with all those “Podi’s”, is a tribute to its marvelous feet. Considered to be one of the most perfectly adapted waterbirds, it has fairly large feet that have both lobes and partial webbing and toes that are more flattened like our toenails than curved. Put it all together and it makes them powerful swimmers. One small snag though is that its feet are placed so far back on its body that it can’t launch into flight from the ground, and on water it has to run like the dickens to finally get airborne. For that matter, if any poor Grebe gets tossed inland during a storm it would probably require a rescue from some kind passer-by. I read that they have on occasion mistaken wet highways for water with, of course, disastrous results.

I feel “graced” to see one, for they are somewhat shy, and unlike the rafts of ducks taking advantage of this small lake out my window, grebes show up all by their lonesome. I think I have written about them before too, perhaps something like “One of these ducks is not like the others”. Of course, it isn’t a duck, but in migration time might be seen with ducks, although it seems more coincidental than purposeful. For example, today the water seems absent of the Ring neck ducks, perhaps they have moved on, but the grebe is still here.


Also I am “graced” to see them for with their tiny bodies and their practically non-existent tail, they are extra adorable as they dive under water. Now, I have never seen this, but I am watching for it, I hear they can also just “sink” under the water. That they have the ability to adjust their buoyancy so if they want to be really stealthy they just slowly sink down. See how life is so worth living! The thought that I have never seen this, but would love to see it, is a reason to look forward to each new day. Maybe today.

And here’s another nifty fact. They are the only bird I have ever heard of who makes feathers a part of its diet. It has been noted that a full 50% of their stomach content can be made up of feathers. The thought is, as fish eaters, perhaps they ingest the feathers to line their stomach and protect it from sharp fish bones. Wow. We all know that many birds swallow sand, small stones; alligators, dinosaurs, they all swallow larger stones to help digest their food, to grind the food as it churns in their stomach, but this is a little different. Even the young grebes are fed the feathers of the parent birds.

If you are lucky enough to live in their breeding ground, which I believe I am on the edge of here on the Cape, you may get a chance to see them carrying their young on their back. I also read that they sometimes dive under with the chicks still on their back. I wonder if they are on when they resurface. Another thing to set your hopeful sights on.

Perhaps where you live there is no chance of seeing a Grebe, but still there will be something else to be “graced” by. Feel free to share with me what that is. Have a lovely grace-filled day everyone.

"One Misty Moisty Morning"

After the non-stop sunshine of Texas it was a delight to come back to a “misty, moisty, morning” on the Cape. Fog had rolled in, a slight mist was falling, and because this cottage has a wall of windows that allows the entire lake to be seen, I could sit here with a cup of coffee and be enchanted by views of the swans swimming into view through wisps of fog. Then the rack of Buffleheads and the Ring Necks all started to appear out of the mist. The kind of view that makes me weep with the beauty of it.

It’s amazing how, even though I can see it all perfectly from inside where it is warm and dry, I still feel compelled to pull on boots and head out to be “in” it. As soon as I got outside I could hear a White Throated Sparrow singing its “Old Sam Peabody, Peabody” song. I know I have written about it before, how it’s one of the songbirds that must “learn” its song from listening to other males. It’s the way that you can tell if you are hearing an adult White Throated or a juvenile male. The younger sparrow often doesn’t have the whole song down.

I used to hear one in my old yard that would keep repeating the beginning “Old Sam, Old Sam, Old Sam peee” but that was as far as it got. Now, in this cottage, I hear what still seems to be a young bird, but further along in its lessons, now that it is fall. For a good half hour it kept repeating the song, coming up with the whole cadence half way through its concert, repeating it correctly several times.

Now, the interesting thing is, this is fall, not really the time for singing to impress the ladies, but I remember reading once in Edwin Way Teale’s book, “A Walk Through the Year” that he too heard a White Throated Sparrow singing away on a foggy day in fall. He thought that it might be because the weather reminded it of its nesting grounds in the cold, often drippy, northern reaches of Canada and so it set it to singing. I wonder. Either way, I was glad to hear it and the same thing was repeated the next day when the weather still was wet and cool. Then we had a spell of “Indian summer” days and not a word from my sparrow. Interesting.

Other “winter” birds that have arrived of late, the Dark Eyed Junco’s, “snowbirds”, have settled in, and the shrubs that border the bog I walk around are alive with the “tick tick” sound they make and the flash of black and white tail feathers you see when they fly. Noting the arrival of “Snowbirds” in the fall and their exit in the spring is something I will miss in Texas. But there will be the comings and goings of western birds to learn to look for. Still, I was happy to have one last season to see these.

And, oh, the Golden Crowned Kinglets are flitting about right out my window. Second smallest bird after the hummingbird, they too come from the north and mix with flocks of chickadees and titmice here. And here is something I had never noticed before, how they flutter at the end of the branches, almost hummingbird-like. At least the one in my yard is doing that. They are searching out wintering insect egg sacs, spiders etc on the branches and as this one fluttered under one branch end after another. I wished I had super strong binoculars to see if it was actually finding anything there. Between it’s moving too fast to be seen, and my inability to focus quickly enough on the new spot it was occupying, I was never able to see if it was eating. Either way it was a treat to see it at all, for often they are too high in the tree to make out anything but their shape and hear their cal. It is slightly higher than the chickadees, often a repeated “tzee, tzee, tzee”, and it is the three times “tzee” that makes you pretty sure it is them.

One last delight and I will let you go, another otter sighting! Right out the window, but only briefly, a floating “brown log” that flipped its “wider than a muskrat, narrower than a beaver, tail” and disappeared. We don’t have beavers on the Cape and muskrats more often swim at the surface and would never have presented such a long body so I am sure it was an otter. And that sort of thing can keep me happy for weeks! And peeled. I keep returning to the spot and, of course, it isn’t there. Otters cover a lot of territory to meet their heavy feeding demands, so seeing one in the same spot isn’t likely, but still. It may cycle around this way again.

Today is also a gray, but warm November day. I shall cherish each gray day for I fear a paucity of them in Texas. If it’s “a misty moisty morning” where you are, may you find it equally beautiful. For you who treasure nursery rhymes as much as I do, I believe that comes from Mother Goose.

“One misty moisty morning
when cloudy was the weather
I chanced to meet an old man clothed all in leather.
Clothed all in leather from his feet(?) to his chin
with a “How do you do?” and a “How do you do?
and a “How do you do?” again”.

Entertained by a Bevy of Buffleheads

One positive side of this nomadic life I am leading is that life is always a surprise. I leave this part of the globe for another for 10 days and come home to a largely altered landscape. In my absence this time; the cranberry leaves completed their turn from summer olive drab to winter maroon, well, winter cranberry really, the leaves of the Tupelos at the waters edge are all on the ground, while the yellow and russet Oaks come down one by one, but best of all, the winter ducks have begun to cover the pond.

At the bog pond at my house, I used to wish there was a sign in sheet somewhere, for one day the pond would have Green Wing Teals, then later Hooded Mergansers and a few Buffleheads and they would come and go without a “by your leave”. Such is the way with a migrating duck. Here on the pond in Falmouth, I woke that first misty day to see, not only the pair of swans coming through this mist, but rafts of Ring Necked ducks and a whole flotilla of Buffleheads.

And let me say right here, I LOVE Buffleheads.
I love the way they can all be on the surface one minute, then, like a well practiced diving team, all disappear at once.
I used to think the one or two Buffleheads left on the surface just represented the clueless few who somehow, and I could always personally relate to this, missed the signal that “we are all diving under now”. In researching these ducks I found that no, they aren’t clueless, they are the brave sentinels that will watch out for danger as the others fill up on pond weeds and the many yummy insects and snails that cling to them.

And whereas you may see huge flocks of other diving ducks, say the Eiders and Scoters that you see on the bays, these Buffleheads are so testy at times that they could never get along in such huge numbers. The 50 or so I had on my pond are about as large as their flocks get. They are the smallest diving duck, about 13-15” and maybe they have a “Napoleon complex” but either way they are reported to be among the feistiest.

Even though it isn’t the breeding season, and they are only stopping by for awhile, so you wouldn’t think territorial disputes would break out, I stood and watched two males, chase and head-bob like crazy at each other, all seemingly over the one female in their midst. They do mate for life, so maybe the one male was making moves on the others Mrs, such a shameless society we live in today, but either way they kept chasing each other, continuing far longer than I had time to watch.

And here is the fun part of watching Buffleheads go through these kind of antics; they charge each other, then fly a short way past to come to a truly skidding halt in front of the other duck. In this case these two kept skidding past the female, then past each other and always you could just imagine the cartoon-like puffs of smoke under their webbed feet. Really, other ducks come in for a splashy landing, but I don’t know of any other that truly seem to “skid in”. Probably others do, I just don’t know about them.

So, if by any chance you have Buffleheads in your area, and you might for they fan out from Canada coming south on all the major flyways, take a moment to watch and if you are lucky, you may see either the disappearing-underwater-at-once act, or the skidding-into-home scene; wonderful entertainment for a fall day.

I also have wracks of Ring Necked ducks but we shall deal with them later. You have a life to get back too. Ah, by the way, a friend at work came up with a good new name for this blog. Once I have to truly leave I can call it a “blog without a bog”! Although for the sake of easy finding I would keep the website the same. But for nowjj I still have the joy of a pond and a bog and the ocean and the woods. Lucky me.

"You Don't Know What You've Got Till It's Gone"

(Author’s note: Once again this will include more personal history than natural history, but surely nature will be worked into it somewhere. I ask your patience while I rant a little.)

If it’s Thursday, perhaps this is Cape Cod again. My zip code displacement is getting to me. I just returned from a nine-day house-hunting trip to San Antonio. All houses, all of the time; houses that looked like they grew on runners, for each row popped up identical buildings, side by side, row on row- to say I found that a tad depressing is an understatement.

Not that they weren’t beautiful houses; they were, immaculate houses, perfectly perfect houses, mostly under 10 yrs old. For that matter that was part of the problem, it was hard to imagine my less-than-perfect possessions blending well with these pristine surroundings. On top of that, I hardly ever choose a house for the house itself but more for the view out the window. And here, the view was of the next cloned house. Finally, I put “mature trees” into the search and that helped a little. But the more mature trees I looked for, the further I kept getting from the area my husband is working in.

Then I got greedy, and started saying I wasn’t looking for ¼ acre lots, but rather 1 acre. That dropped a few thousand houses out of the market just like that. It was the best thing I ever did, and now houses in the Texas “Hill Country” popped into view. My brother-in-law and sister-in-law live there and they always said it was the only place to look.

So now, with apologies to my poor husband who will have to consider slogging through traffic as bad as any we faced in DC, I have found a property or two with fabulous look-out-the-window appeal. One sits atop a hill with a view of Live Oak and Cedar’s as far as you can see.

And the other has a little over two acres of a myriad of plantings, which qualify it as a Certified Wildlife Habitat- very cool.
My first thought was that for the first few months I could simply blog about what I was discovering in my yard. Monarch’s were omnipresent here also, much closer to their destination in the Sierra Nevada’s than the Florida ones. This second house also boasts the largest tree I saw in TX and its right out my window! The house was also the only one I saw that looked lived in. It wasn’t perfectly perfect but homey, and much more me than any of the others. So now, dear reader, you must wait along with me to see which one will win the day. And then, what shall we call this blog? A “Blog from the Bog” was so lyrical. “The Nature of My Story”, “Living with Less Chlorophyll” – it will take some thought.

Meanwhile I promised some nature. The most stunning thing about the area is that wherever you are, in the inner circle of the city, or on the fringes, there are deer; dozens of deer, denizens of deer, dangerous amounts of deer. One strike against the house on top of the hill is that it requires my husband to navigate his way down the hill on roads that are the major hang out areas for deer with time on their hands. Add, that he will be traveling in the dark most days and we can see a collision course in his future. In a duel of “Large Buck vs. Aged Escort”, I would put my money on the buck.

Clearly something has gone very wrong with the food chain. I shall have to look into this, but one guess is that all those bounty-hunting days of the past have brought us the welfare state of deer we have in the present. Too many sweet fawns being born where there is little food, plus this historic drought isn’t helping either. Ironically, the house that purports to be a “Wildlife Habitat” has a high electric fence around it; one supposes to keep the wildlife out. At least the foraging herbivores that would nibble down all the protected plants.

Surely I will have a lot to learn. I have lived in New Mexico before and did love that. I will concentrate on embracing my “inner cowboy” my “inner lizard” and try not to think of what I will not see much of any more: amphibians, clouds, green grass, colored leaves, mushrooms, moss, oceans, marshes, ponds, cranberries floating in a flooded bog etc, etc. In reference to the title of this piece, I DID know what I had, and it won’t really be gone, but still existing 1,000’s of miles from where I will be.

But it will be all right. A naturalist, I tell everyone, is never bored. Let’s just see if I can live up to my own maxims. Of course, half the fun will be sharing it with all of you. But the house isn’t bought yet, so more weeks of slipping from NE to MD to TN and back again. Already there is another blog brewing about some Bufflehead antics that are taking place right out my window here in North Falmouth. This glorious set of windows overlooking the pond has the most glorious view of all. So stay tuned, “bog blogging” isn’t over yet.

Monarch Migration as Metaphor

I am writing this from the Cape, but I have just returned from three weeks flitting my way south, visiting daughters along the way, then with my eldest daughter’s family, continuing south to visit a dear friend who lives on the panhandle in Florida, near Destin. Collectively we had three children with us, three and under, so we spent our time going to the beach, on river walks, to pumpkin patches and wherever we went, there were butterflies.

Mostly, there were Monarchs, on the flitting migration south and then west on to Central Mexico. I loved seeing so many for here on the Cape they seem far less abundant then they used to be. I couldn’t help relating to them too, for I had just “flitted” my way south, and soon must also head west. And if I seem to be taking forever to actually get to Texas, well, they allow themselves a good 130 days for the journey, so I am doing a fair job of keeping up with their schedule.

And isn’t it amazing, that a creature weighing 5 grams with a wingspan, at the most, of 4” would undertake a journey of some 2,000 miles! When they are just going with the flow, “hovering”, they average about 7mph, when they are actively flapping their wings, they attain about 11mph, with speed bursts of, hang on to your hats, 22mph! Yet on they flap. They also know how to take advantage of rising air masses, and somewhere I read or saw where they can get a free ride from the higher jet currents, which would have to be a handy thing.

I also read that prior to migration, they beef up on nectar, attaining a weight 6x their normal weight. And, get this, after flying for about 4 months, and covering upwards of 2,000 miles, they still have enough fat left to make it through a winter to be able to head north again in the spring! Now, all you dieters out there, is that not a bit depressing that you could fly continuously for 3 months or so and still have weight to spare! But of course, for the butterfly it means survival.

Also, if I understand this correctly, at least for the Monarchs ending up in the Sierra Madres, they didn’t go for the warmth and Margaritas.
It is very cool in the mountains and there they maintain a temperature that keeps them alive but slows down their metabolism to let that remaining fat take them through winter. Once spring arrives, they warm in the sun, mate and head north again. These migrating Monarchs will have a life span of 8 months or so, but then the usual cycle again of egg laying, larva, pupa and adult, all in 6- 8 weeks, kicks in and it will take at least three generations of Monarchs to make it all the way back to the Cape in summer again. Really, is there anything in nature that doesn’t amaze?

So, I continue my “flitting” process, although tomorrow, I too shall take advantage of the jet stream and jet my way out to Texas to finally look for a house. More than looking for a house, I seem to be looking for the elusive property that might have a tree in the yard, for there are Texas birds to be fed, and without trees their presence would seem unlikely. Seasonal whiplash continues. I have gone in and out of fall and summer at least three times now and it is all getting a bit disorienting. In fact though, I have only used up about 60 days, so if I stay on Monarch time, I still have months to go. And although I may still have a bit of a “Bottecelli belly” from Italy, I am happy to say I did not increase my weight six fold for the journey!

Twice Blessed by Owl Calls

Hearing an owl is always a treat, and, at least for me, a fairly rare one. And yet here, in the span of two weeks, on two separate continents, I have had the wonderful serendipity of being at the right place at the right time to hear them. First in Italy, throwing open the shutters on my last night there to hear that trio of Scops owls,
and now tonight, in TN while taking my dog for his final walk of the evening.

I had just left the house when I was delighted and surprised to hear, over the cricket calls, dogs barking and distant traffic, the low sound of two calling owls. By their calls, I am quite sure they were two Great Horned Owls, one calling and the other echoing in a duet. I expect to hear that sort of things in courting owls up North in January, but tonight was the full moon, and why not hoot on such a night as this.

I tried reading up on aggressive owl behavior; do they tolerate another owl living in such close proximity if it isn’t a mate? Not likely. And one source said that although it’s true that they nest in late January, early February, they could start courting as early as October. Bingo- maybe it was a pair. The male’s call is low and strong, and the female higher pitched. Can I say with certainty that it was higher pitched? Hmmm , I am not sure. Either way, it was lovely, and unexpected.

Other out of context, or out of the usual time frame, sightings have come about simply because I switched to a more southerly latitude.
Osprey left the Cape about a month ago, but here was one today sailing over the Pigeon Fork River, not far from the infamous “Dollywood” of TN. I was out at the foothills of the Smokies for a trail ride with my 3 yr old granddaughter. How marvelous was that! Riding tandem in the saddle, up ridges and down we saw not only the changing foliage of walnut and hickory trees but also a coyote mid- day. And during our Chimney top hike on Sunday there was a patch of woods that was full of warblers. Heading south, with further to go no doubt.

And I too am heading south with further to go, all of us heading to Florida in two days. I’ll watch the season unwind a bit more, leaving fall behind and heading back into summer. The miracle of travel, when you jump seasons like this it becomes its own form of a time machine doesn’t it? And it would seem unlikely that I will have any time to blog about it, until the whole thing is put into reverse and I make my way north again to the Cape. Once there, I only have two days before I jet to Texas to finally look for a house. No doubt that will seem a solar system away from where I am now. Seasonal whiplash seems to be my destiny for a while longer. And it seems I am intent on taking all of you along for the ride! Keep your neck brace handy.