2011 - In Transition

Twelve months ago, I set for myself a challenge to photograph as many different species of birds as I could in one year. The rules were simple: the photo must be clean, clear, recognizable, and have enough quality to look good on a computer monitor at a minimum of 900 pixels on the longest side. The results can be seen on Flickr; just click on the link: Diane's 2011 Photographic Bird List 

It was fun, at first. I found that I pretty much had the wetlands and woods to myself, I knew where to go to find the most variety of species along the east coast of central Florida, and I took a couple of trips northward, along the Appalachian Trail and into New York State, that beefed up my count.

What I enjoyed most on those early mornings in the wetlands and the woods and the mountains was the solitude, the peace and quiet, and the communion with Earth and all her creatures. On occasion, there were others out there with me (birders or photographers intent on quests of their own), but I was always able to find a subject that seemed to interest only me or a place in which I was the only one "hunting" the  birds.

My count, by birding standards, isn't that high, but I'll bet that among amateur bird photographers, it's pretty darned good. (There are a couple duplicate species in the set, but they are either illustrations of the differences between juvenile/adults or breeding/non-breeding plumage.) So, I'm satisfied with what I have accomplished, as the year comes to a close.

However, somewhere along the way, maybe August, maybe September, I began to notice something different in the field: increasingly, there seemed to be more people showing up in the wild (or at least in prime birding locations)! What had been, last January, a pleasant encounter with an acquaintance here or an impromptu walk with a friend there, suddenly became a constant struggle against a steady stream of people and cameras and cars in some of the most special and quiet and peaceful places I knew. Men and then women began carrying gi-normous lenses . . . 2 or 3 feet long . . . lenses that required, for most users, a tripod, which meant that there were traffic jams on dirt roads and battles for position when a desirable species showed up doing something wonderful . . . meetups with more than a dozen photographers (some literally dragging suitcases behind them to carry all their Canons and Nikons and Tamrons and tripods and flashes. (For god's sake, it's nature, not a studio!) . . . and an unrelenting sense that it was becoming more about showmanship than about guardianship. And that the birds, themselves, and the environment, itself, might end up suffering most. (Yes, when more people use the land, we are more likely to fund its "preservation," but to what end, I ask you, when the most plentiful species in the area is Homo sapiens?)

So, for next year, I'm setting myself a new challenge: to find the most peaceful, beautiful, quiet, and undiscovered places that I can. A few photos will accompany my blog on each location I find. I will not tell you where I've been. My photos will not be geotagged. I will not compete with you to get the best shot. This will be about showing you what's out there that says we are still in touch with the goddess . . . mother earth . . . Gaea . . . god . . . and that she can still provide all that we need.

Namasté.

See you in 2012, when the name of this blog will be changing . . .

Saying Farewell to My Best Friend . . .

In the spring of 2003, my daughter adopted a pound puppy that was billed as a "mixed breed: sharpei/keeshond," but we decided it was more likely that she was a chow mix, instead. Whatever her pedigree, she was a beautiful, fluffy, and bouncy little girl. But she came with issues. . . she had been returned to the pound by her first adoptive family, she had a bit of a wild and very much of an independent streak, and she didn't like tall, dark, strange men.


Within a few months, Joey (named after a character from one of my daughter's favorite TV shows) had been picked up by the neck and shaken by a large rottweiler, developed a biting response to being touched on the back of the neck, and come to live with me. A couple years later, when my daughter and her family moved to another city, Joey stayed with me.


She'd been K-9 trained and had a large yard in which to run around and hold dominion over everything that moved. She made friends with the pit bulls who lived next door, making a game of barking at them through the fence every time she saw them, and she loved nothing better than when they would jump the fence and run around the oaks a few times with her before they made their break around the end of the fence line where it dropped into the water. She didn't like getting wet and wouldn't go with them.


But her problems with strangers continued, and she developed a habit of barking wildly and shaking the chain link fence with her teeth when any dog walked by in the street. (I've seen that habit in other chows, so I wonder if that part of her aggressive behavior tends to be a fault in the breed, rather than a fault in the dog.)


She didn't trust her vet (the first day she met him, he walked in the doors behind her, dressed in black motorcycle leathers and helmet) but loved the staff in his office. So, she was always well taken care of and welcome to board with them when I traveled. And she eventually began to let him touch her without having to muzzle her.

As she grew older, calcium deposits developed in her hips and shoulder, and the touch of a hand to a joint could cause her pain. The habit of shaking the chain link fence and the metal bars on her crate cracked her teeth. And her fear of strangers increased to the point where she began to respond aggressively to any approach by a stranger, outside of the house. When I recently moved to a new city, she refused to accept a new vet or any of his staff members. She became so fearful of strange people and dogs that she was involved in three fights (She was in a harness and on a leash and they were not! Shame on you if you let your dog run off leash!) and last weekend made an aggressive charge on a boy we encountered while walking in the woods. (She was, again, in harness and on leash, so there was no harm done, but she gave all of us a good scare!)

And so, she has gone to the rainbow bridge, where all her pain and fears are relieved. I spent most of Monday catering to her every whim, and then I sat down to write this apology to her for all the mistakes we made with her over the years that led us to this sad end to her life. Joey, my girl, I will miss you! Thank you for being my devoted companion for all these years.

(Update: this morning, Joey greeted Dr. Zern and his staff at the Chuluota Veterinary Hospital as if they were old friends. I thank all of them for the help and support they gave me over the years, especially this morning--it's Tuesday afternoon as I add this note.)

It's time to heal!

I've been thinking about the various reactions we've seen in the past few days to the death of Osama Bin Laden. Ranging from emotionally charged "Hooyahs!" to patriotically charged chants of "USA! USA!" to morally charged admonitions of "take no pleasure in any man's death" to worrisome cries of "the hydra has more than one head," I've heard it all.

One thing binds all of these reactions together: they represent the collective exhale of a world that has been holding its collective breath for nearly ten years.

Then, this morning, I heard one small voice, at the bottom of a very long string of Facebook comments, say, " How profound it would have been if our nation took to the streets with candles and prayed/meditated/remembered those we lost, walked in peace for those in other countries who lost loved ones because of OBLaden's actions."

People, it is not too late to do so. Let this be your task, if you really believe this is what we should do: gather your family, your friends, your congregation, your community, your town, your city together and make that moment happen. Lead us in prayers and meditations, that the death of this man should give us pause to reflect on ourselves and to declare our love of peace and goodness and truth. I call on all our religious, political, and intellectual leaders to do so!

It's time to take a cleansing breath!

The brief but spectacular life of a Southern Magnolia blossom

I've been waiting a year for the magnolia in my new front yard to blossom, so with three large buds developing on the lower branches, I figured I was in for a magnificent show. Every morning, I took my tea on the porch swing, waiting for the magic to happen. Last night, after a day of shopping, I came home to find one of the buds had opened, turned brown, and withered away, all in one day . . . when I wasn't even looking. Not fair! (Not to mention astonishing) . . . these blooms are enormous, I've admired them on other people's trees for years, and never before had I noticed howly quickly they open and fade away.

So, this morning, determined to catch the blossoms in action, as the second bud looked ready to open, I took up position in the front windows, camera ready, and waited:

Photo #1 taken at 8 a.m.

The first petals (tepals, as they are called) began to peel back around 8 a.m. Notice how they pull back, cup like, from the center, all of them opening at once, as if falling away from the center. What follows is a series of photos taken from one-half to one hour apart, from 8 a.m. to shortly after 1 p.m.


Photo #2 taken at 8:30 a.m. 

In half an hour, most of the tepals have pulled away from the center and the stamens are already beginning to fall away from the cone-like receptacle in the center (which you can't see, yet). The cup-like shape of the tepals catches and holds these stamens for awhile.


Photo #3 taken at 9:20

By 9:20, a honey bee and a few "love bugs" have discovered the flower and are visiting the center. As you can see, a pile of stamens still lies in one of the tepals; these were eventually dispersed by the wind. (The honey bee has probably been busy in the back yard nectaring in the Simpson Stoppers and is already carrying a good-sized load of pollen in the sacs on her legs.) She makes a quick stop to check out the stamen pile, then moves to the center receptacle.

Photo #4 taken at 9:20 a.m.

With all but three of the tepals pulled back, the center receptacle is revealed--a curious combination of numerous spirally arranged stamens at the base of a conelike receptacle bearing numerous spirally arranged carpels.

Photo #5 taken at 9:59 a.m.

By 10:00, most of the loose stamens have fallen off and blown away, revealing a red base to the cone-like structure; the darker yellow "curly" carpels cover the top of the cone. The honeybee has gone about her business elsewhere, but the love bugs still show a lot of interest in the flower.

Photo #6 taken at 10:55 a.m.

By 11:00 a.m., all but two of the tepals have pulled away from the receptacle and all the loose stamens at the bottom are gone. What remains are the curly carpels attached to a red cone-like base. The gorgeous white tepals are beginning to soften, even at this early stage, and darken in color.

Photo #7 taken at noon.

By noon the flower is fully open. The colors have deepened and the structure of the receptacle is evident. Gorgeous, isn't it? The full width of the flower is at least 12" . . . spectacular.

But it begins to fade almost immediately.

Photo #8 taken at 1:10 p.m.

By 1:00 the colors are beginning to fade; yellow and red are turning to brown and the tepals begin to droop.

Photo #9 taken at 7:40 p.m.

By 7:40, as the sun begins to set, the flower has lost its vibrancy and everything is drooping and fading to brown. By morning, there will be no white left in the tepals or the carpals. Apparently, the cone-like receptacle will remain until seeds develop (thanks to the hard work of the bee and the love bugs!)

Now, if someone could explain why that all happens so quickly? I've read that this is a very basic and actually quite primitive flower; did the first flowers have to move along quickly in order to survive? Is this an environmental defense of some sort? Why would the dna want things to be so simple and so fast? If you know, please leave a comment.

Spring has Sprung

When I first came to Florida, I must admit, I mourned for the loss of the "seasons" as I knew them from more northern climates. Nearly 40 years later, I have come to love the subtle blush of spring as it hits Central Florida. A recent walk in Turkey Creek highlighted some of my favorite spring things down here:

Trees are busting out with new leaves and inflorescence. Who knew that the turkey oak (what a name, eh?) could be so spectacular in the spring? Little teeny tiny golden leaves, lengthy trails of inflorescence (is that where it gets its name?) make this a splendiferous part of the spring-time "wakeup."

Unlike deciduous trees in the north, many hardwoods in Central Florida hold onto their leaves until late winter/early spring, when they drop their leaves, quickly blossom, and start their new leaf growth all within a very few weeks.

Along with the incredible green "leaf out" come the first wildflowers of the year. Among the earliest to blossom is the "sky-blue lupine," which bursts out in spreading clusters of blue flowers and powdery gray-blue catkin. This is a little different from northern lupine, which tends to grow in very tall and dense stands across an entire field; down here, the plant tends to be shorter and more compact. But that may just be a result of its appearing in a more sandy, drier climate. 

But the best part of spring, for me,is the return of the dragon and damselflies. Last Friday, in the upland pine scrub part of the Turkey Creek Sanctuary, I found a first of the season Regal Darner, one of the most beautiful and uncommon darners in our region.

Happy spring, everyone! Hope to see you out there!

A Child's-eye View: Turkey Creek Sanctuary

I've walked through Turkey Creek Sanctuary with my grandson before, and we've ooo'd and ahhh'd over lizards and turtles and fish, but I'd never actually seen what he sees, until I handed him the camera and let him lead the way. Wooo, hooo; what a wonderful experience that was . . . (these photos were all taken by Caden, with the exception of the shots of him walking down the path.)

With my old Olympus E-410 (with a good 40-150 zoom lens) in his hands, Caden and I headed into the Turkey Creek Sanctuary for an afternoon of nature photography. This was his first experience with a DSLR all to himself, and it was our first photographic outing together. He quickly left me behind and headed down the path, as a man on a mission.

First stop: the butterfly garden. A few fumbled shots, a fuzzy photo, a quick lesson on focus and mechanical issues, and we were on our way.



As we walked toward the entrance to the preserve, we saw what we thought was a gopher tortoise statue on the edge of the garden, but it moved as we approached. Caden carefully focused his camera and grabbed the next shot:

Well done, little man!
 
For the next two hours, I looked at the sanctuary through the eyes of a seven year old, following him along as he scoped the brush and the woods on either side; what an experience that was! Every one in a while I heard him voice an abrupt little "Hm," and we would stop, while he framed and focused his shot.
 
Few of us spend much time thinking about the beauty of destruction, but Caden considered them all . . . the unusual break in a tree trunk, blown down by hurricane force winds:

 
Or the stark beauty of a dead pine tree towering above our heads into a clear blue sky:

 
We looked at flowers and new growth plants and side paths that led to nowhere, and finally, came to the creek, where there were gators and turtles and fish and we spent nearly an hour as he snapped photo after photo after photo! One of the biggest gators I've ever seen in Turkey Creek:

And a large gathering of turtles and catfish at the canoe launch dock:

Finally, as we left the trail, nearly two hours later, one resident gray squirrel beggar made one last attempt to garner a handout.

We made one last stop in the nature center, where Caden took his last photos of a manatee skeleton and this (stuffed) barred owl on display there:

If you have a grandchild take him or her for a walk with a good camera in their hands! If you don't have your own grandchild, borrow one! Not only do they need to be turned onto the beauty of nature, we need them to love it enought to take care of it, when we are gone . . . and I guarantee, you will have the time of your life!

Clapping on the Downbeat with Celtic Woman

A few weeks ago a former student, now in college, posted an upbeat music video clip on his Facebook page and admonished his readers to "clap on the upbeat, white people!" (Well, he had it a little bit wrong, confusing up/down/off beat, but I'm giving him the benefit of doubt, here.) And that led me to consider why it's so true that some kinds of music invite rhythmic clapping on the downbeat (country and Irish, for example) and other kinds of music invite clapping on the up or "off" beat (jazz and African, for example). For those who don't know, up and down referred, originally, to the direction of the conductor's baton, which always comes down on the first beat of a measure . . .

Last night, I had the pleasure of attending a performance of Celtic Woman, which includes a few numbers in which the performers invite the audience to clap along, and, sure enough, there we were, clapping along (thunderously) on the downbeat! And it was good and right that we should do so.

Just watch an Irish dancer perform: their feet accentuate the downbeat, and to be clapping along with the upbeat would absolutely ruin the urgent, driving nature of the dance . . .

Here's a reel from a previous tour, with the performers dancing and the audience clapping! Slainte!

Of Missiles and Mangroves: Part III (Goin' on a Rail Hunt)

Remember all those practical jokes you heard about as a kid that sent people on "snipe hunts" into the darkening woods at twilight? Well, there really is such a thing as a snipe, and they really are nearly impossible to catch, especially with a camera! They hide in ditches and forage along the edges of tall reeds and grasses and fly up with a burst of speed, if they hear you approaching, before you even know they are there.

Well, the black rail is even more elusive, living deep within tall marshy grasses, preferring to walk or run and rarely taking flight unless you nearly step on one. And they are rare. In fact, these birds are so rarely seen, it is one of very few birds that can be checked off your life list by sound alone. The black rail is the smallest North American rail, measuring about the size of a sparrow.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

On Wednesday, Jan 26, 2011, a group of twenty-four intrepid birders headed into the restricted St. Johns National Wildlife Refuge in hopes of "hearing" a black rail. The group was led by MINWR biologist Mike Legare, who has been conducting research on the area's small population and has been instrumental in protecting the salt marsh area in which they live. We were driven into the marsh on a trailer loaded with hay bales about one hour before sunset.

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
At the appointed hour (apparently, there is a 10-15 minute window during which the rails may be enticed into calling), Legare began playing his tapes. Since this was not mating season and they were not aggressively defending territory, getting a black rail to call meant getting them to express interest in what strangers might be hanging around. We wandered up, down, back and forth along a very wet path, stopping occasionally to listen, very quietly, for a rail to respond. Upon hearing a single, distant response, Mike stepped off the path and into the tall marsh grass; come on, if you like, he said, and off we went into the marsh. We stumbled along in tall, wet, grass, unable to see where we were putting our feet down (it's getting dark at this point, mind you), some people losing their balance and falling, and most of us stepping into pools of shin deep water! Were there snakes there, in that grass? Nobody asked.
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
By the time the sun sank below the horizon, we had heard a response from at least four rails in the area, watched a gray ghost (male northern harrier) hunting along the distant palmetto stands, and filled our boots and shoes with at least an inch of water. (Thanks, Mike, for getting us "cut off" from the path!)
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Back at the trailer as darkness descended, we wrung the water out of our shoes and socks and trailered back to the parking lot with the black rail added to our life lists.
 
This is a field trip you should not miss, if you ever have the opportunity. Legare says that the black rails in this area seem to be declining in numbers, despite constant monitoring and control of their habitat (which includes controlled burns designed to keep taller scrub from invading the area.) Currently, there are fewer than 20 known nesting areas for this bird in Florida and it is listed as endangered or threatened in at least five of the eleven states in which it breeds.
 
Hopefully, the national wildlife service will be able to continue monitoring and protecting habitat for all our endangered, threatened, and declining species, not just the black rail!

Of Missiles and Mangroves: Part II (Snark Infested Waters)

After leaving the lighthouse, we drove past several launch complexes on our way to the 45th Wing Space Museum, including Complex 14, where manned orbital flights began. We had some interesting lessons in the development of launchpad bunker technology, including a look at some of the earliest made of little more than sandbags piled about 15 feet high and 5-10 feet thick that were only a few hundred feet from the pad. (Ignition was hardwired and there was a limit to how far the wires could be strung.)

The Freedom 7 memorial site sits at the beginning of the approach road to Complex 14. Surrounding the abandoned pad (all that remains is a concrete pad, everything else has been "recycled" in some way) is prime scrub habitat, home to some of the families of scrub jays and dozens of gopher tortoises. Biologists on the cape take their job as guardians of endangered species seriously; during one launch, two owl nestlings were removed from a nest close to the launch pad for two nights and taken to the Maitland Center for Birds of Prey; they were safely returned to the nest after the launch, where their parents immediately took up their care and successfully fledged them.

One of the most important projects underway at several sites around the cape is the removal of the invasive Brazilian Pepper (also known as Florida holly, even though it is not a holly but is closely related to poison ivy and sumac). Along roadsides, where scrub and hammock oaks should thrive and along river edges where mangroves should be growing, the Brazilian pepper has crowded out most native species. The shrub was imported from South and Central America in the 1800s as a decorative accent tree. Two species were imported: one planted on the west coast of Florida and the other on the east. The two species did so well that they grew across the state and hybridized in the middle.

Birds love the berries and, oddly enough, gopher tortoises apparently have done well living under the stuff, as biologists are discovering dozens of tortoise dens beneath the trees as they are being removed. Unfortunately, they have a spreading growth pattern that crowds out mangroves and scrub species.

This effort to remove the peppers and reline the edges of the causeways with red mangroves is a project that could lead to improvements in eradication and control efforts accross the state. An unfortunate downside to eradication efforts is the loss of the attractive berries, which have encouraged migrating songbirds to stopover in the spring and fall. However, both the scrub and the mangroves harbor resources that support certain native species, some of which are currently threatened or endangered.

At our final stopover on the cape we met one extinct species of which nobody mourns the loss: the Snark.



 The Snark (named after Lewis Carroll's snark) was one of the first Intercontinental missiles, propelled by rocket fuel and jet engines. It was pretty much a failure, with only a handful ever being deployed after dozens were launched that flew short and fell into the ocean (hence, the idiom "snark infested waters" and the drawing of a shark's jaw on the nose of the model on display in the museum hangar.)

It's good to know that eleven threatened and endangered species are being watched over by the environmentalists of the 45th Space Wing, including loggerhead turtles, green sea turtles, leatherback turtles, scrub jays, and southeastern beach mice.

Interesting factoid: concern about the health of the Poseidon submarine turning basin led biologists to conduct a survey of marine life in the basin; they counted more than 200 hundred species living there! Yay.

Of Missiles and Mangroves: Part I (Scrub Jays and Historic Lighthouse)

Yesterday, I was privileged to tour Cape Canaveral Air Force Station with Don George, a biologist with the 45th Space Wing and one of the environmental engineers charged with protecting endangered species on the base and planning mitigation activities when an area of scrub is taken for the construction of new launch facilities. George only leads two tours per year, both of which occur during the Space Coast Birding Festival, sponsored by the Brevard Nature Alliance.

Our first stop was on a small rise a bit north of the trident basin, where George called up a family of endangered Florida scrub jays, who responded to his pishing and a handful of acorns.

As we watched the birds picking up and then burying each nut, we learned that there are 144 families of scrub jays living in this roughly 15000 acre area. One of George's missions is to keep the habitat in a condition that will support the scrub jay, which means periodic burnings, sometimes within feet of buried stores of solid rocket fuel.

Our next stop was at the Cape Canaveral Lighthouse, which was built in 1848, then rebuilt in 1868 so that it could be seen for 16 miles, rather than the original 10 miles. At that time, the port was an offshore area that was bounded on the east by a reef, not the deep water port that visitors see today. In 1894 the lighthouse was relocated about a mile and a half inland because of beach erosion. (1/2 mile of that distance has disappeared into the ocean since then.) In 1954 the light was automated, in 1993, the fresnel lens was removed and a modern optic was installed, and in 2000, ownership of the lighthouse was transferred from the Coast Guard to the U.S. Air Force (in fact, the Canaveral Light is the only lighthouse owned by the air force.)

The light went dark from 2004 until 2007, as the building was being restored. The keeper's house no longer exists, but the brick oil shed is still adjacent to the building. This is a photo of the iconic black and white light as it stands, today.

Poached!

Last summer I photographed these amazing butterfly orchids growing in the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge. Since the plants are fairly obvious to the knowledgeable observer as you drive by, I've kept an eye on them whenever I've been out there. Last time out, all that remained on the branch of the cedar tree were a handful of roots and scars in the bark. The orchids had been poached by someone who knows what wild orchids look like when they are not in bloom or by someone who had been waiting for the right moment.

Sad. Very sad.

Poaching of wild orchids has been a problem in Florida for many years; Susan Orlean wrote a book, Orchid Thief, about some infamous poachers of the ghost orchid, a very rare and hauntingly beautiful Florida wild orchid that grows only in swamps in the Everglades. (One very famous ghost orchid has been blooming along the Corkscrew Swamp boardwalk for the past few years; it's become popular with photographers and orchid enthusiasts, alike.) And in 2006, a Nancy Drew mystery covered the same topic.

The sale of wild orchids is illegal, but it's difficult to prove whether a particular specimen offered for sale was taken from the wild or grown from seed.

Maybe the person who took these orchids is just an ass who wanted to keep them all to him/herself and doesn't have an interest in propagating and selling the orchid. Whatever. I'm pissed off. This is the sort of behavior that causes access to wilderness areas to be "closed to the public."

Anyway . . . what's my point? Well, if you're reading this blog, you love nature, probably, as much as I do. Consider it your duty to keep a watchful eye on things as you hike, or bike, or walk, or meander through the wild. If you see something suspicious--someone digging through the dirt or picking flowers or ripping orchids off a tree--report it to a park ranger! Immediately.

Backyard Birding

With smoke from the Palm Bay muck fire drifting through the area all day, I decided to hang out and watch the birds in my back yard, rather than head out to the wetlands. Since I have a brand new back yard, with what could be considered a non-existant canopy and very little cover for birds, it's been difficult establishing my feeding stations as a safe place for birds to be. My only regulars have been a half dozen mourning doves and a couple of cardinals. A large flock of palm warblers drifts across the lawn several times a day, but they do not visit the feeders.

The cooing of mourning doves (Zenaida macroura) is one of my favorite sounds; however, they tend to be messy and don't like to share the feeders with other birds. Some people mistake them for pigeons, but while they are in the same family, doves are of a different species. Until the trees get bigger and other birds get comfortable using the feeders, I'll take them, anyway! They are difficult to spook, and they seem to be getting used to having Joey wander around in the yard while they are at the feeder.

Palm warblers (Dendroica palmarum) seem to be ubiquitous this winter! Hundreds live in the woods behind my house and dozens work the back yard for insects and tiny seeds all day every day. Their call is a sweet and high whistle that fills the air when they are on the move, and they don't seem to be bothered by either myself or Joey until we get within 4-5 feet.

Hopefully, these regulars will bring in some migrants when spring begins to draw near. . .